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Crows with Better Luck Show me the man who asks an over-abundant share The Chorus, Oedipus at Colonus Amy’s got the kind of thighs that make you forget about the cauliflower ear. I’m a bare-knuckle boxer who fights with his lips and tongue. I trust her because when she moans it doesn’t sound like rape, it sounds like love. I don’t know anything about her past except for what I can piece together through photographs. Amy calls this improv. I just don’t know when it’s happening. “Never have a threesome,” she says, “especially if there’s a camera. It’s the quickest way to end a relationship.” Which relationship she is talking about I am not sure. How she can blow dry her hair and apply mascara is beyond me. A two by four foot mirror leans against the western wall of our bedroom. Head back, back straight, legs crossed; Upanishad is the word that comes to mind. I set my coffee cup on a shelf of books and wonder what Yosemite is like now that it’s an ashtray. “My father didn’t like my last boyfriend.” On the bookshelf all I see are titles, memories of lives I’ve never lived. “Dad is kind of racist though.” I will never drink coffee again. She shakes the bangs out of her eyes and smiles to herself. “I am glad I got that out of my system.” Amy’s routine of flat irons and contact lenses, Mac makeup and tops that show enough of her tits for her to feel empowered bothers me. She thinks her shirt covers enough for her to feel insulted when I suggest things involving whores. The thing about dating an actress is that there won’t only be a handful of moments when you realize her empathy isn’t real. Every interaction is a dry run of emotional research. They aren’t capable of natural expression. Quiet is something that doesn’t last longer than a brief close-up and subtle fade-out; the time it takes the camera to really capture what the actors are feeling. She’s gauging your reaction when she’s crying. You’re supposed to be looking. *** Outside at the bottom of the stairwell it smells like wet cigarettes. The clouds are pockets of smoke and ash. The fires have been going for weeks now. On the news they seem optimistic; the biggest blazes will be eighty percent contained by October ninth. Last week it was ninety percent contained by September eighth. I knew it was July when I woke up to California burning down. Three towns over the ground look like a stoma. People are still smoking. I had left the Bay for the desert some months ago. Amy stayed behind to pay two grand for an apartment at the hub of overpriced organic free-trade imports and thrift stores. The bedroom and living room are only primed. The kitchen has a microwave and a fridge, a sink without a disposal, and a four burner electric stove, two of which actually work. Her oven is not calibrated. Yesterday, after driving for eleven hours, I got back into town. I love you starts to sound like an equation six months into a long distance relationship. Drying out never goes as planned. I dig in my pocket for cigarettes. When I pull the pack out my lighter falls and as I bend over to pick it up St. Jude smacks me in the mouth. This happens more than you might think. On my sleeve it says my father died and all I got was this lousy necklace. It’s seven-thirty and my phone rings. It’s Peter. We were best friends some years ago. He sent ahead a bottle yesterday. He does every year. “Hello Pete,” I say and light a cigarette. “Hey Jim, happy—” “Yeah, thanks.” The orange haze from the streetlamp turns my cigarette smoke green. In these post-dusk hours things are still glowing. I can hear Peter shuffling paper on the other end. “How’s the novel?” “I’m realizing it’s a waste of time. Jarrod says I’m acting like a twelve year old.” Jarrod is Peter’s lover. “He calls me a pansy.” Peter is not gay, he’s just overdramatic. Guilt ran him into the arms of a man after he stuck his dick in the only woman I ever loved. “I just suck, you know? Heartbreaking Work is just so good…” I met Amy some months after he did that. The first thing Amy ever promised was that she always wanted to be honest with me. “…and Bukowski…” I thought maybe she should fuck Peter too. At least that way I would find out what the difference was. Trust and love do not coexist. Eventually you hedge your bets. “Listen, you’ve written thirteen pages. Most writers can’t make it past two.” The blow dryer and the bathroom fan are still going upstairs. All of our lights are still on. The good thing about this apartment is that oak trees line the sidewalk frustrating the traffic noise. Peter is sobbing like a baby. I snuff out my cigarette and grab another. “No. This is it Jim. I can’t take it anymore.” There’s a calico in the bushes. “It’s time to take the razor up the street.” Anyone that plans on how they will be found isn’t serious. “…bathtub. No, no, the bed.” It’s amazing he can think of all this; sniveling like he is his eyes must be the size of baseballs. There are high-heeled clacks coming down the staircase. I close my eyes and imagine a .50 caliber machine gun in slow motion; shells spill out the side and rain to the ground. “I’ve got cum in my nose.” Cling, clank. Cling, clank. “What?” Peter takes a deep breath, “My nose. The mucus is like cum. It’s all thick and stuff.” Amy hugs me from behind and leans her head between my shoulders. “Are you listening Jim?” “Yeah, yeah. Something about you not being happy Pete.” “Yes! That’s just it. Nothing makes me happy. Not even writing this book, I mean, it did for a while.” Amy stands on her toes and whispers real slow in my ear. I flick my cigarette over the handrail. She rubs her hands down my chest to my stomach and back up again. “It just seems like everything I write is shit. I just want to hide but I can’t. I just want a hole to fall into.” I turn the phone over on itself and follow Amy back up the stairs. She really moves in that dress. Pulling it off will be a tragedy. I unlock the door and walk in and Amy shuts the door behind me. I feel my way to the fridge and pull out a beer. In the radiating light I see her trying to pull her right shoe off with her left hand and her right hoop earring out with her right. We aren’t going out after all. I close the refrigerator door and take a long sip. “You remember Peter?” I say, unbuttoning my shirt with my free hand. I can hear her doing the same balancing act on her other foot. “What did he want?” “Apparently Peter is going to slit his wrists.” “No,” she says, “really?” I manage not to hit anything while I move toward Amy. My hands move under her dress and up her back. “What are you gonna do?” Forgive me father.
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