My father placed one enormous hand on my shoulder and I could feel him looking down at me. I craned my neck way back and looked up at him, my chin nearly level with my forehead as I strained to see the giant man behind me. I made eye contact and then quickly lowered my head, returning my eyes toward the cross. Had I just seen my father smile or had I seen him frown? I hadn’t been able to tell. Did he know what I had just been thinking about? I had no idea what I was supposed to be thinking and no idea what he would have expected me to say at the moment, so I said nothing. I stood very still, feeling the weight of his hand on me.

The couple in line directly in front of us had their hands raised to the ceiling, swaying back and forth to the music. Are you washed in the blood of The Lamb? Everyone swayed differently, as though they were all listening to different songs. They raised their hands differently, some stretched to the ceiling, some barely above their elbows. When the line shuffled forward, I wondered if it would look like a snake to anyone looking down from above. Serpent. That was what Moses called snakes. He liked to write about serpents and the ones he wrote about were always evil, like Satan in the Garden of Eden. I wondered if I was allowed to think about evil serpents in church, especially in this line. I didn’t think my father would like it if he knew, so I tried to think about Jesus. If the man with the red face on stage was going to pray for me, I would have to think good thoughts. I would have to think about lambs and blood (the precious blood) and the cleansing power of the cross.

* * *

Earlier that day, while we were sitting in the first morning service, I had asked my father why people raised their hands during worship. Without taking his eyes from the choir, he told me that everyone worships differently and everyone has to do what Jesus compels them to do.

“Is that why people… talk in voices?” I couldn’t remember the phrase and immediately wished I hadn’t asked him.

“They speak in tongues, Christopher.” He spoke slowly, using his most serious, Sunday-morning baritone. Then he said something that got lost in singing, tambourines, and cotton.

“What?” I felt I missed something important, something that I needed to know. “What, Dad?” I asked again when he didn’t respond.

“Christopher, be quiet and pay attention to the songs.” His voice was like a whip. “We don’t talk during worship.” My cheeks flushed and I looked back toward the singers and dancers near the stage. I stared straight ahead and I thought about tongues.

I vaguely remembered our Sunday school lesson from weeks ago when we learned the story of the Pentecost. I remembered that, after Jesus was killed and raised into the sky, his disciples had been filled with the power of the Holy Spirit and their love of Him caused tongues of flame to come from heaven and sit on their heads. These Holy Spirit tongues had let the disciples testify to sinners about the good news of Jesus, no matter what language they spoke. I had only heard half of the story and had trouble following the other half because all I could think about was the flame itself. Was it hot? Did it burn their hair? Were they afraid of the fire or did they know it was Holy Spirit fire? Why did flames come from heaven? Weren’t they supposed to be from hell? Would flames land in my hair if I loved Jesus enough? I wanted to ask my father all of these questions, but I knew he would get mad if asked about Hell and I couldn’t figure out how to put it all together into the right question. I had already pushed my luck by asking him anything when I was supposed to be singing.

* * *

After we left church that morning, my father looked as serious as he had during the service itself. He told me once that worship didn’t end just because the service was over. We needed to carry it with us the same way Jesus carried the cross. I could tell that he was still carrying it as we pulled out of the parking lot. I thought if I asked him my questions, I might show him that I was still carrying it, too.

“Why do they speak in tongues?” I tried to say it slowly, the same way he had earlier.

“Because they’re called by Christ. Haven’t you ever been called by Christ?” He raised his eyebrows and looked down at me without moving his head.

“Yeah.” I didn’t look at him.

“Yes.” He corrected. “Well, then you know why.” His voice came from way down in his chest and I found myself wondering if Jesus’ voice was that deep.

“Yeah.” I kept watching the road.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” I said, finally letting my eyes travel up to his face. He was staring intently at the cars on the road in front of us and his eyebrows were wrinkled together in a frown. This always made his eyes look dark and the darkness meant he was getting annoyed.

“Well, what did Jesus call you to do, Christopher?”

“To pray and read the Bible and be nice to Rick and Meredith and you and Mom,” I recited. It came out of me as one long word.

“That’s right.” The dark wrinkles in his forehead relaxed and his eyes softened a little. “Some people are called to raise their hands, or sing, or become witnesses for the Lord.”

“Or putting on hands?”

“Laying on hands, Christopher.”

I looked out the side window held my breath. Every question was a test and I knew I wasn’t scoring well. I didn’t know why I had even started this, but I knew that I wanted to be done with it for this morning. I wanted to go home and eat ham and mashed potatoes and not talk anymore.

“… remember… the man …tonight?”  I couldn’t make out what he said over the sound of the road.

“What?”

“I asked if you remember what I told you about the man we’re going back to see tonight? Pastor Hill.”

I let out a long breath before I answered. “He’s a faith healer?”

“Yes. And do you know why we’re going?”

Very slowly, I answered, “To see… the miracle of the Holy Spirit.”

“And?” He clenched his jaw slightly.

“And to get healed?” I absently touched the cotton ball in my right ear. I could feel that it was wet with blood or sweat. I couldn’t smell anything, though, so I knew it wasn’t pus this time.

“That’s right. But you won’t be healed if you just get in line and ask for it. You’ve got to declare it, Christopher.” He put special emphasis on this last part, the same way he always did. “You’ve got to declare your afflictions before God or you won’t be healed.”

I sat there nodding, confused, nervously considering whether to ask another question. The last time we went over this he told me I had to declare my afflictions before Jesus or I wouldn’t be healed. Now I really wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I remembered back to the time I had asked him, a long time ago, whether we were supposed to pray to God or Jesus. I thought of the way he had tightened his jaw and the way his voice had rumbled deep in both of our chests when he finally answered. Very tensely, he had told me that I couldn’t really be a born again Christian if I had to ask that question. I remember promising him that I really had given my life to Jesus. I had taken him into my heart as my personal Lord and savior and I had been washed in the blood of Christ. I ended up crying, telling him over and over that I was really saved. I really was a Christian and I really was going to Heaven. I knew it, I had told him.

“Christopher, do you understand?” His deep and serious voice pulled me back into the present.

“Yes.” I nodded with certainty. ”I do. I have to declare it before God. Before Jesus.” I held my breath and avoided his eyes.

He smiled at my answer and I smiled back.

* * *

The line moved forward again and I thought about declaring it. I touched the cotton balls and thought about how the blood of the Lamb would heal me and cast the demons out, maybe into a herd of pigs. I thought about the sick man on the rooftop in Galilee, about the blind man who had to put spit in his eyes, and about the one leper who came back to thank Jesus. I knew that if I could be faith healed, I would come back and thank Jesus and God and Pastor Hill, and I would thank my father for telling me how to declare it. I wouldn’t be one of the thankless lepers. I would be washed in the blood and I would move mountains and then my father would know for sure that I was saved. I had to think about the hands of the faith healer as though they were the Robe of Christ. I had to stop thinking about serpents, or Jesus and God wouldn’t heal me.

The line moved forward and, for a few seconds in the space that opened between us and the people in front of us, I could see most of the way to the front. The first few rows of chairs had been moved away from the stage to make room for people to dance and play the tambourines. Pastor Ken and his wife were there at the front praying for people who cried because of their sins. I could see the dancers moving through the crowd. From the way they weaved in and around the praying people, I could tell there were more people kneeling on the floor out of my sight. I thought that Mr. Whitten was probably kneeling there, praying for forgiveness because he was always kneeling at the front, praying for forgiveness. He prayed so much that I used to think he must be the holiest man in church. Then one time I heard my father tell my step-mother that Mr. Whitten was a drunk and that was why his wife left him. I knew Jesus didn’t like drunks but I hoped he would forgive Mr. Whitten because I liked him and thought he was a nice man. He always shook my hand and called me sir.

My father’s firm hand pressed gently into my back, guiding me forward in line, and then my view of the front was cut off. The butterflies moved deep down inside me when I realized that the line seemed to be moving faster now that we were getting closer to the front. I wanted to see the healer at the massive pulpit, and the long glass altar, and the people who fell down when he touched their foreheads. I had seen it before, but now I wanted to study it. What if I didn’t fall properly if the Holy Spirit went into me? What if I threw up and made my father or god angry. I didn’t think Jesus would get mad, but I didn’t know anything about the red-faced preacher on stage, except that his name was Pastor Hill. What if I made him mad? My father told me that he was a man of the Lord and had spiritual gifts, but what if I did something wrong while he was healing me? Would he tell me what to do and where to stand and how to leave the stage? Then I was hit by a horrible thought: what if I couldn’t hear the Holy Spirit words he spoke?

 * * *

Several weeks before Pastor Hill came to church, I went with my father to see the ear, nose, and throat specialist. Doctor Kroger always gave me pieces of candy after he finished vacuuming my ears. He would remove the long, thin metal nozzle from deep inside the center of my head and then he’d let me dig through a big glass jar until I found the one I wanted. I always chose lollipops. Then I would sit on my hands in the big chair in the middle of the room with tears running down my face and a lollipop sticking out of my mouth. I would be able to hear for the next few days, but I would cry from the pain and my ears would ring at any loud noises. I would cry, my ears would ring, and I would want a lollipop. My father would tell me not to cry.

“Mr. Barr, it’s just an ear infection.” Doctor Kroger voice was direct and quiet.  “We can do another set of tubes if it continues, but I think with summer coming, he’ll want to swim. And, considering the reactions he’s had to previous operations, we should wait to see if–“

“See if it works itself out, I know. Every year, we wait, to see if it works itself out.” I cringed at my father’s raised voice. Soon, he was going yell at the doctor and I didn’t want him to.

“Mr. Barr, I‘m very sorry, but we have been over this.” Doctor Kroger sounded tired, the way people did when my father was about to yell at them. “Allergy tests are negative, inflammation is minimal, and there’s no tearing of the eardrum. We see this all the time; we just don’t know what causes it. It’s actually quite common for problems to arise as the ear canal develops. It usually happens in adolescence, but everyone is different. For now, I think we should continue with the drops and you can bring him back in for a vacuum in another four weeks.” I could feel the tears well up as he suggested this.

“That’s not an answer and it doesn’t solve anything. Those drops cost money. Vacuuming costs money. That might not mean anything to you, but some of us don’t have money to waste. And I don’t care what you say, this isn’t what usually happens to anyone.” My father’s voice got higher, sharper. I closed my eyes and tried to bite into my lollipop. “You know he has pus running out of ears? You know it smells like an infected wound? It’s sickening.” I started crying and I hoped no one would notice, but Doctor Kroger looked at me.

“Mr. Barr, why don’t we send Chris out to the waiting room?” Doctor Kroger moved to open the door.

“Why don’t you learn how to do your job?” He was yelling now. “You’re all a bunch of damn quacks and thieves and you steal anything you can from sick people. You raise your rates every year but you never do anything to heal anyone. You don’t even try and you can get away with it because we’re at your mercy.”

I wanted to apologize to Doctor Kroger, or to my father, but I knew if I opened my mouth, I would start sobbing. I wanted to be strong.

“You’re welcome to get a second opinion, of course.”

“Would it matter? You’re all the same!” My father yelled. He opened the door, looked down at me, and nodded toward the hall. “We don’t need you or any of your crooked friends, Mr. Kroger.”

I stood up and obeyed my father’s silent command to leave the room. He followed me out and closed the door loudly behind him. The sound echoed through my head and made me dizzy as I walked back toward the car. He didn’t say a word for the entire drive home. When we pulled into the driveway he only slouched back against the seat, pressed his eyelids with his fingers, and said, “Doctors don’t know anything about healing.”

I knew what he said was true.

 * * *

I was standing alone on the bottom step at the far right of the carpeted stage, listening to my heartbeat hammer through my muffled head. I was thankful that my ears hadn’t been vacuumed recently, or I wouldn’t have been able to handle the loud shouts and praises of the people worshiping near me. It seemed as though the whole congregation had crowded to the front of the sanctuary and I thought that, even if I could see over all the dancers and singers, the endless rows of seats would all be empty.

When we reached the usher near the edge of the stage, my father had stayed behind, sending me ahead on my own. The usher had smiled, patted me on the back, and said something to me that I couldn’t hear. His voice had gotten all mixed up with the Hallelujahs and blessed be your names and praise Gods that were flying through the air around me. I had tried to ask him what he had said, but he just smiled and pointed toward the steps. I took a step forward with an ice-cold stomach, and red-hot face.

Now I was alone and the whole world was singing in my ears.

I looked back and thanked Jesus that my father was so tall and that I could still see his face over everyone else’s. I suddenly found myself thinking about Goliath and wondering if there could be good giants or if they were all evil. My father wasn’t tall like Goliath, but he was really tall. How tall did someone have to be to be a giant? I couldn’t remember any good giants from the Bible, but I was pretty sure there weren’t any. Then I realized I was standing there in the healing line thinking about evil giants. I quickly turned my thoughts back to Jesus and healing and my father. I looked back toward him and tried to ask him with my eyes what to do, but he just gave me a little smile and mouthed something that looked like declare it.

“Amen, Lord!” The sudden shout from a woman on stage scared me. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she must be receiving the gifts of the Holy Spirit from Pastor Hill. I tried to see around the man in front of me, but there was an old woman in front of him blocking my way. I didn’t know how many people were between me and the front and I wished I had paid more attention.

“Amen, Lord,” I tried to say, but my hoarse voice barely escape my throat.

The singing started to blend into the praying and it sounded to me like the air itself was beginning to chant or moan. Occasionally, I could pick out words and bits of a chorus, but I didn’t recognize the song and I couldn’t tell who was saying what or whether anyone was saying anything to me.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

“…and power and glory…”

I blinked so I could see better. Around the legs of the man in front of me, I could see across the miles of stage to Pastor Hill himself. He was wearing a white suit that made his red face seem almost unreal this close up. He was so close and so real and looked so much smaller to me now than he had from my seat. I had thought he would be huge, like my father, but he was short and quick and red and absolutely unreal.

Taking another step forward, I tried to concentrate on rehearsing what I was supposed to do when I got to the altar. I was shaking and my breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps. Forcing a deep breath into my lungs, I closed my eyes and tried to plan the steps I would take from the top of the stairs. I’d wait until he called me or looked at me or waved me to him. I’d walk out and smile and when he touched my forehead, I’d open my heart to Jesus and pray and beg and I would declare it and when the cleansing power came down to me from heaven, I’d open up my arms real wide and fall backward, just like I always did on my bed at home. Only this time, I wouldn’t fall all the way down, because God would catch me, or Jesus would, or the Holy Spirit. But, no I knew that couldn’t be right, because the Holy Spirit was going to come down through the hands of Pastor Hill, so it must be God or Jesus who would catch me. It didn’t matter, somebody would catch me and I’d feel my heart fill up and I‘d know that I had been faith healed and that the power of the Lord was in me. Pastor Hill would heal me of the pus and the blood and the pain and the smell, and I would be able to hear without tubes and swim without earplugs, and I wouldn’t need drops or vacuums or cotton balls. The singers would sing a song for me and everyone would clap because they knew how long I had been carrying my afflictions and they would know that a miracle had happened here. I would thank Pastor Hill, and when I walked down the stairs on the other side of the stage my father would be there and he would be smiling because he would know that I was saved and that the Holy Spirit was in me and we wouldn’t have to go to the doctor’s office anymore because my faith had been enough. And I would cry because it’s okay to cry after you’ve been faith healed.

Then I opened my eyes and was called to the center of the stage.

“Come on out here, son.” Pastor Hill was talking directly to me as I walked toward him. “Come on out here and accept the anointing of the Lord. Jesus Christ wants you to whole. Jesus Christ wants you to be well. Jesus Christ wants you to be blessed with the fire of heaven.” He put a hand on my shoulder and spoke words I couldn’t understand. They sounded like shundu de le kura, followed by “Praise Jesus. Halelujah. I can feel the power in here tonight!”

And then an usher I didn’t recognize was standing beside me, guiding my by the arm to the left side of the stage. I thought something had gone wrong. Something must have happened that I hadn’t heard. I knew it couldn’t be time to leave the stage yet so I looked up at the usher. I wanted to ask him about the tongues and the light of heaven, but he just smiled down at me and said “Bless you, little man,” and walked back toward Pastor Hill. Standing at the top of the stairs, my ears grew red hot as I wondered if I had done something wrong. I felt that people must be watching me to see if the faith healing had worked, but the tears were back and I couldn’t see farther than the bottom of the stairs. I walked down the five steps nervously and looked around, unsure of what to do. After a couple minutes of waiting and blinking, I saw my father making his way toward my side of the sanctuary, smiling. I tried to smile back. I tried to smile in a way that said I have been faith healed. I declared it.

 * * *

We pulled out of the lot toward home and I could feel my father looking over at me. I didn’t want him to ask me anything and I couldn’t imagine how to ask him the questions I had, so I just touched the cotton in my ears and closed my eyes. I tried to look like I was concentrating, or praying, or carrying something, but I could feel my face getting hot and my ears turning red. I began to sweat and I worried that I might be sick, that I’d have to throw up in the car or ask my father to pull over. I had never heard of anyone throwing up after being faith healed, so I put all of my effort into holding it back, to show that Jesus was in me. We rode home in silence and I kept myself from getting sick. I thought maybe it was the blood of the Lamb that was healing me inside.

Old folks need apocalyptic blasphemy too!

On the top shelf are three bags of Freihofer’s wheat burger rolls, carefully arranged from oldest to freshest, left to right. The bag on the far left has only two left inside, but the other two bags remain unopened, still filled with the delicious potential of sixteen future meals. The bags still have their green “2 for $6” stickers, and I think to myself, totally worth it.

Beneath the shelf of bread is the drawer of meat and cheese. Here is where we sometimes keep deli chicken and turkey, because we love thinly sliced poultry and will eat it in all its forms. Here is where we sometime keep bologna, because we are savages and will eat anything. Today, however, there are no deli meats. Today, we have Hoffman’s super sharp cheddar cheese, sliced thick and individually separated by little sheets of plastic. Next to the bag of cheese, we have about two pounds of Hannaford Inspirations ground turkey burger. This is the exalted center of our refrigerator, as well as my current dietary obsession. Looking at it now, I feel more than a little guilty for not having built it a little altar, complete with candles, flowers, and carved symbols. Perhaps I will construct one from the styrofoam burger container, after I’ve written this, and after I’ve ingested the sacred turkey meat.

I see other items on the shelves, but none of them seem important compared to the burger. There’s some mayo, which can be used in the event that either the ketchup or mustard bottle is empty. I see some lettuce (also questionable), which can be used in conjunction with the mayo if necessary. We also have some yogurt, but I can’t see any way of applying that to burgers, so my mind tends to edit it out, even as I’m looking at it. The same is true for the strawberry jam, the milk, the pudding, the glucosamine tablets, and the cat’s ear mite medicine.

On top of the fridge is Maker’s Mark. Throughout the known universe, there has never been found a better addition to a meal of turkey burgers. Along with holding a special place in the seven heavens as the nectar of the gods, it can also help me ignore the fact that I’ll probably be eating poisonous mustard.

I repeat the “here, take it” gesture without letting go of it. I’ve fed these little park rodents before and I know how to do it without getting hurt. He considers my offer, cocking his head side to side, twitching his tail. His little arms (front legs?) come back up reach out toward me. I don’t move any closer. The way I figure it, I’m higher up on the food chain and I’m the one offering him my food. I don’t go to him at his request. If he wants it he comes to me. For some reason even I don’t understand I begin using the same squeaky mouth sounds I use with my cats.

“It’s okay. You can have it. Go on.”  I tell him in my best squirrelese.

He hops forward another couple feet and is now close enough to touch if I want to. I don’t want to. I want him to take the food, be all sorts of cute, and then run away. I take a bite out of the bar that’s in my left hand while offering him a tiny piece with my right. I do this to show him that it’s good, that it really is food. He buys it and reaches out for the food with his sharp little claws.

Rather than take it out of my hand with his paws, as I have come to expect of good park squirrels, he holds on to my forefinger and thumb as he takes a bite. At the same time that I feel an intense stab of pain in my thumb, I look down at the end of my arm to see a confusing jumble of fingers, claws, chocolate, teeth, fur, and blood. I drop my portion of the Balance bar and wonder for a split second if I want to, or even can, kick a squirrel in the park in broad daylight.

He runs away with the rest of my Balance bar as I nurse my bleeding finger and come to terms with what has just happened. I’ve just been mugged in the park by a squirrel.

Simple savages.

Only a savage would ignore the subtle differences in beauty between the distinctly angular silhouette of a Coleman and the sleek, curvy outline of a Kenworth. To them, a semi is a tractor-trailer is Mack is an 18-wheeler. They have never uttered the words articulated combination vehicle. They’ve never spoken those sweet, succulent words over and over to themselves, tasting the way they roll over their tongues, articulated combination vehicle, articulated combination vehicle, articulated combination vehicle. Some people don’t stand back to admire the tilt-cab construction of a classic Sterling 481 and they’ve never run their hands admiringly along the bubbled fender of a ’77 Navistar International. Some people just call them trucks. Some people don’t know true beauty. Some people can’t appreciate the pure sexiness of heavy mechanical power.

I open the door of my little pickup and step out into the crisp fall air. I keep my gaze leveled at the beauty in front of me and I don’t bother to shut the door tightly behind me. Walking up to the rear of the tractor, I notice how naked she looks without the Lowboy attached to her drive train. I marvel, and not for the first time, at the mechanical masterpiece of the hydraulic lift attached to fifth wheel. I run my fingers gently over her, imagining the landing gear of the trailer fitting down behind her rear wheels. The tread is think and grooved and delicious, like black licorice.

Passing the extended sleeper cab, I can’t help but stare at the graceful curves of her running board and the modified fuel tanks clinging to her smooth sides. As I get closer to the door, I let out one shaky breath into the cool autumn night and I shiver a little, but not from the cold. I realize then that I’ll probably be unable to properly express myself if I have to face the driver. I decide it’s best not to disturb the man in my current state, so I turn and head back to my truck. My retreat to the safety and cover of my truck is quick, but stiff and nervous. Once I‘m sitting back in my seat, behind my own little steering wheel, I relax a little. I take one last look at the cold metallic beauty of the The Green Crawler, and I drive away, my heart hammering away with its fast and guilty beats.

They’re made of black and white leather (maybe) and I think that, once upon a time, long before I bought them for ten dollars, they were shiny. I think the glossy black edges positively gleamed against the matte white top, sides, and tongue. Now, they’ve lost their reflective luster and the black has become a dull, scuffed, shadow of its former glory. The white has lost its once-pure radiance and now bears the marks of countless scuffles with sidewalks, curbs, and stairs. They look like the kind of shoes that might have been cast aside by Frank Sinatra after a spontaneous night of drunken, back-alley kickboxing.

On the top of the toes a dizzying pattern of holes are punched into the “leather.” Perhaps it was intended to look like a fleur-de-lis, or a shield, or just a stylized arrow pointing out toward the world in front of it. At some point, maybe before I bought them, maybe since, the holes lost their uniform integrity to what was probably a paperclip or a ballpoint pen. Some are wide and uneven, others still have their original shape, and still others seem to have been filled in with clay or silly putty.

Along the top, where an apparently ungodly amount of walking has bent the toe up from the rest of the shoe, a crease has formed. By crease, I mean trench. The trench has expanded widthwise across the shoe, as well as grown deeper into the surface of the leather. In one place on the left shoe, the trench has become a crack and it can no longer keep a left foot dry in the rain. Directly above the trench-cracks, there used to be black waxed-cord laces. When one of these snapped a few years ago, I replace it with some braided hemp twine. In the interest of symmetry and tastefulness, I replaced both, rather than just the one. They’ve proven to be an effectively durable replacement for the originals.

For reasons I can’t completely articulate, I’ve stopped wearing these magnificent shoes. So, if anyone wants them, I’ll sell them for nine dollars. Tell your friends.

They were laughing their queer little laughs while holding up skirts and sequined tops against themselves and each other. The short one, the one with long and girly blond hair, picked out a flamboyant velvet hat and delicately placed it on his head, striking a fem pose in the mirror on the wall. He didn’t look too pleased with what he saw, so he handed it to his “friend.” This kid was taller, thinner, with short hair, and looked like one of those trendy little metro fags you see on TV. When he put it on, Goldilocks wrinkled his face, shook his head, and turned back toward the rack of women’s dresses.

Metro put the hat back on a shelf and walked over to look at the mini-skirts. He walked just like the token gay kids do on the Real World: knees pointed gently in and hips swaying, trying to show off an ass he didn’t have. He found a glittery little number and pulled it on over his skinny black jeans. Walking back toward Goldilocks, he adjusted the waist of his new skirt and looked at himself in the wall mirror. He cocked his hips to one side, folded his arms across his chest, and pouted his lips in a way that made me sick. I could just imagine all the other queers oohing and ahhing at such a pretty little boy all dolled up in women’s clothes.

I wanted to look away, but it was like a gay train wreck; I couldn’t help myself. I held up a pair of jeans and acted like I was inspecting them thoughtfully. I looked past them to Goldilocks who had just pulled a bright, floral dress on over his way-too-tight hipster jeans. It was an ugly dress, even for a woman. It was the kind of thing that overweight, middle-aged women with too much perfume wore to church. It hung ridiculously over his body like a tent or a tablecloth, folds of cloth drooping loosely over everything. He broke out in a big grin, clapped his hands twice, and then he actually squealed at the mirror. I couldn’t believe the clerks weren’t kicking the little perverts out of the store. There were kids and old ladies in there.

I put down the things I had been carrying and considered walking over there to beat some manners into the little ladyboys. It took some serious self-control, but I decided today wasn’t the day for beating queers. I just walked to the door, slowing down only to glare at the clerk behind the counter before leaving.

Through the squinting I can see in front of me an endless field of white. While trying to find the edges of that brilliantly ugly white, I work my thoughts down through my body. I instantly realize that my neck is bent at an odd angle and my arm is twisted up over my head. I can move my toes and my fingers and, with significant effort, I can bend my arms and my legs slightly. The white expanse above me is punctuated by parallel and perpendicular lines that I can’t force myself to understand. My brain refuses to comprehend what it knows is a familiar pattern, choosing instead to focus on the pain involved in pulling my arm back down to my side. It’s only a dull ache, very unlike the stabbing bursts in my head.

I become fully aware of the pain in my body at the same time that I notice a persistent hum of energy all around me. Dull, muted vibrations have given way to specific, comprehensible sounds. I begin to register these sounds at the same time that I realize what it is I’ve been staring at. My confusingly geometric field of snow is the corner of our living room ceiling. The sounds I hear are my roommates eating cereal and playing Nintendo. Once again, I have passed out on the couch with my neck bent against the hard armrest. Last night was filled with drinking and pills and bongs. Today will be filled with vomiting and regret.