radcliffe-2 domain was triggered too early. This is usually an indicator for some code in the plugin or theme running too early. Translations should be loaded at the init action or later. Please see Debugging in WordPress for more information. (This message was added in version 6.7.0.) in /home1/tollopa/public_html/colin-adams.com/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6131It’s hot, and it’s sticky. The crickets are singing and the fireflies are dancing. A group of children are running and shrieking delightfully in the street, illuminated by an orange splash of a street light. It’s a summer night in Omaha.
Michael watched all of this from a ruddy, wooden bench, cigarette in hand. His wife just told him she wanted a divorce two hours ago. Michael felt like a psychopath because after he walked out of his house and sat on this bench, he decided to look at his heart rate data from his smartwatch. He could (he believed) see the exact moment when his wife asked him if they could talk today, that she had something to tell him; he could see his heart rate looked like a mesa, flattening at a rate two-and-a-half times his normal resting heart rate. And, even now, he could see his watch determined he was ‘Stressed’ and ‘Anxious’. No shit.
He felt like a psychopath, because his metaphorical heart had just been torn from him, but his actual, physical, literal heart was still there pounding.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, …
He just wanted it to stop. Fuck me, he thought, as he took the final drag of his cigarette before stabbing it out on the armrest. Fuck. Me.
Michael took a deep breath and stretched to look up to the sky. A few stars peaked out between the gap in the cloud. He saw Jupiter or Venus or something bright. He wasn’t sure why the Omaha sky always calmed him down, but it did, and he was grateful for it. It made him feel like he needed to throw up a little less.
He pulled the pack from his front pocket and lit another cigarette. Fuck me, he thought.
“Did you get the mail?” Andres called out to Chris.
“No, not yet. I’ll do it now.”
“Thank you.”
Chris skipped down the three steps from his apartment into the communal courtyard. He flipped through his keys before inserting the mail key. He grabbed the mail and was sorting it even before he walked back in. A Nordstrom’s catalogue—trash; a Panda Express coupon—trash; a credit card offer—trash. A handwritten envelope—not trash.
1801 14th St. SW
Boise, ID
To: Chris Rakashan
734 Apollo Dr
San Diego, CA
A Boise return address? Chris didn’t know anyone from Boise. He removed a butter knife from the kitchen and tore it open before fishing out the holiday card. It was Sarah, a forgotten friend from high school. She was wearing a black tank top, tan cargo pants, a climbing harness, and an orange helmet standing beneath a red rock. An Indian woman was kissing her cheek. It said “Happy Holidays and a Happier New Year, from our family to you: Love, Sarah and Sonali” in a sapphire blue. No kidding, Chris never realized Sarah was gay. Good for her. He flipped it over and saw smudged ink and chicken scratch. As far as he could tell, it said:
Chris, how the hell are ya? I hope you remember me? I know this is kinda random but Happy Hollidays! I got engaged this year to my lovely, bestest bestfriend, Sonali. We met at my first job and we fell in love. Crazy right? Anyway, getting engaged really makes you think about who’s who and what’s what in term of Life. Sonali and I made 100 holiday cards but the print shop gave us the sample also. So you’re the lucky extra! Let me tell you why.
In high school, one day during school, you and I were alone both in the hall when everyone else was in class. I think we were both on our way to the bathroom at the same time. Anyway, you locked eyes with me and said, “High five!” and when I went up to get it, you said, “Scissors! Ha-ha, you lose.” It was so random and dumb and so goofy and I couldn’t stop laughing. I’ve never forgotten that memory, and it always makes me smile when I think about it. I’m embarassed to admit that I told that story at work one time—Sonali overheard and actually laughed! Nobody else did, but later that night was our first date! The point is, without your goofy life, mine and Sonali wouldn’t be beginning. Thank you! Happy Holidays, and a Happier New Year!
Halloween is the best holiday of the year. He knew this, deep down. Deep in his bones. When else could you even attempt to dress like a slutty camel and not get thrown into an asylum?
Apparently not this night. He surveyed the other sexy animals, sexy fruits, sexy trees, as he sat in the corner, ostracized, sipping an Everclear-based punch in what felt like the adult equivalent of time-out. Nobody feels confident dressed as a sexy, two-humped camel, but the murmurs he heard with their eyes daggering his back, never made him feel more outcast than that moment in his whole life. It was at this precise moment when she walked into the room.
That’s right, her. The disco lights shined bright across those long legs, and her feathers ruffled, like a Radio City Hall Roquette: the sexy ostrich had entered the party.
And if he hadn’t been so frazzled before she walked in, his already non-existent game would have been further petrified. Slack-jawed, he stared; not subtly and not briefly. He stared until his mouth’s interior was a Saharan sand dune, and only after his eyes felt like two salted raisins did he manage his manners. He blinked and let Everclear punch wash over that desert, bringing it to life again, and then somehow found the confidence to go up and talk to that dazzling, flightless bird.
That drunken, slutty camel strode confidently, chest out, humps perked, walking right up to that ostrich and as he opened his mouth to speak to that goddess she turned to him and said, “Sorry, I have a girlfriend.”
Michael picked up his chopsticks and placed the first in the fleshy part and the second gripped like a pencil, just like YouTube taught him. No way was he going to embarrass himself in front of his mother-in-law again.
Weihong was saying something about how people back in China constantly change their lingo in WeChat to avoid the censors, but it keeps evolving so, so quickly.
He was so hungry. The bokchoi, the green beans, and the mushrooms were all in front of him, smelling so delicious. He tries to pick up a mushroom and it slips out between the chopsticks. He quickly looked up, and nodded at Weihong in agreement, thankful that she didn’t seem to notice his clutz-i-ness with the chopsticks.
Apparently, Weihong continues, it’s gotten to the point that she can’t even understand what her friends text her without some help looking it up now.
Michael reset the chopsticks with his left hand and went for it again. But this time, he couldn’t even get a grip on it, and just kind of pushed it around his plate for like five seconds. He scooped up his rice to save face.
And it turns out, all the rich people and the not-so-rich people and even the people who aren’t dirt, dirt poor are trying to get out because of how totalitarian and Big Brother-y it’s getting. The word for it is whatever ‘run’ is in pinyin. As in ‘run’ out of China. And you have to do it before you get blacklisted by the government and you’re just like stuck.
His stomach curled from hunger. He sipped the tea on the table. Fuck it. Michael forked the dumpling with the chopsticks and shoveled it into his mouth. Weihong was speechless.
“Hey boss, I need to talk to you.”
“What?”
“I may need to miss my next shift.”
“What for?”
“Remember how I got a jury summons the other day.”
“What?”
“Well, I got selected for jury duty.”
“Tell them you can’t go because you have work.”
“Yes, I tried that. They said you legally had to let me.”
“And you wore that hat I gave you? The NRA hat?”
“They said hats weren’t allowed inside the building.”
“Well now who’s breaking the law?”
“What?”
“Did you say it was your religion?”
“The NRA hat?”
“Yes. Some religions make you cover your head.”
“You know, for some reason, I think an overweight dude with a beard wearing an NRA hat is probably not a member of one of those religions.”
“Say you converted.”
“As much as I want to perjure myself, I decided to just remove my hat.”
“So you don’t care about the job, huh?”
“I never said that.”
“I should just fire you, huh?”
“Again, that would be illegal and could open you up to litigation.”
“You threatening me, boy?”
“No, ma’am. Just repeating what the judge said to me.”
“Stupid judge… How long?”
“I don’t know. It’s a manslaughter case, so potentially a few weeks, they said.”
“A few weeks? I should just fire you.”
“Again, that’s not legal.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Likewise.”
“Don’t back talk.”
“Okay.”
“So anyway, how do you want to handle my shifts? You think Angela can take over?”
“Angela? Ha! No. She’s too good to do what you do.”
“Umm… okay. Mike?”
“Mmm. Yes, maybe Mike.”
“So do you want me to handle that or…?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really.…”
“…”
“I’ll just stop then.”
Milo walked into the concert hall with Kyleigh. It was a small venue—no seats, with concrete walls and warm, dim lights. He was surrounded by people with disheveled hair, baggy shirts, and torn jeans. Kyleigh was rocking it, too. Apparently, it was the required dress code to get in.
The place smelled pervasively of alcohol, conjuring up memories of fuzzy moments when Milo still drank. He stopped drinking around the same time he stopped going to concerts.
Kyleigh was a fair amount of drunk, with the explicit goal of timing peak drunkenness to coincide with the first song on the album Blame My Ex, which was fun, because she got all loud and shouty. Kyleigh had asked him to go since he was in town, and, in preparation, he started listening to all of The Beaches’ latest albums. And Milo just totally vibed with them. It felt good and somehow cathartic to have this punky group of Canadian women just yell at him in a singsong manner. It kind of reminded him of the same comforting feeling he got when watching The Bear. Milo wondered if this was because nobody really yelled at him when he was growing up. None of his girlfriends had ever yelled at him, and he never raised his voice in anger. Is that what he wanted? Is that why he liked hanging out with Drunk Kyleigh? For the yells?
This train of thought drained immediately from his head when the lights dimmed, and The Beaches, in all their glory, took the stage. Two minutes later, Milo was screaming with Kyleigh and hundreds of other drunk youth
I wouldn't let me near your friends
I wouldn't let me near your dad
But don't blame me, blame Brett
Blame my ex, blame my ex, blame my ex
Don't blame me, blame Brett
Blame my ex, blame my ex, blame my ex
at the top of their lungs.
It’s almost 11:00 am on a Thursday. Cherrie hasn’t gotten out of bed yet. Well, that’s not strictly true. She got up and peed but then jumped right back in the covers to hide. She could tell she smelled bad. And her hair made her feel like she was the fourteenth member of OPEC.
Fuck.
How could she get laid off? How? Like, she knew she wasn’t actually important to the company, but she didn’t really think anyone was. As far as she could tell, that entire company was a giant bullshit job picking up other companies’ shredded papers and then burning them offsite near Palm Springs. Like, what? Can’t these idiots burn their own shredded paper? You’d think these technology companies would give enough of a shit about their own proprietary to make sure the job got done proper. But if you can find an economical niche, then, sure, the job’s necessary. But alas, it turns out the burning of the shredded proprietary information is necessary, but cold-calling companies asking for the service was not.
Cherrie groaned. Fuck it. It’s uptime. She threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. Too fast. Woozy. Okay, better. Good. Breakfast then Linkedin.
Cherrie spooned and slurped her Honey Nut when the Army ad popped up. Be the Best You Can Be. Fat fucking chance Uncle Sam. She’d just read that article about Ukraine being the new WWI, amputee-wise. Oh, hell no. And plus, was she too old? Is 26 and three-quarters too old to join the Army?
Type type type.
Oh, thank Jesus Fuckin’ Christ. The age limit is 35.
Cherrie went back to slurp up more Honey Nu—God damn it! It was soggy. Can this day get any worse? She deserved a treat, right? Instinctively, she glanced at the drawer next to her bed. No. No. It was too early for that. She hadn’t earned it. First some job applications and then maybe.
Scrolling through LinkedIn somehow turned into scrolling through Hinge. No. Yes. Yes. No. No. Fuck no. Yes, please. No. How many people had she swiped on in her four years of dating? Oh my god. Cherrie asked what the real-life chances of being alone for the rest of her life were. It seemed like everyone else from high school and college was engaged or married. Nobody was just dating casually. Except her.
Maybe she’ll just go back to bed. It’s—uh, what do they call it—a little mental health break for having a tough week.
“Hi. RJ?”
“Hi. It’s so good to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too. Umm, shall we go in?”
“Sure.”
“Great.”
…
…
…
…
“Did you do anything this weekend?”
“Not a whole lot. I went to the theater and saw some movies.”
“Oh, which ones?”
“Just one.”
“But you said movies.”
“I know. It’s a little embarrassing, but I watched the same movie twice.”
“Like back to back. You go movie hopping or something?”
“Kinda. Well… no, not really. I’m too much of a rule follower. It wasn’t the same theater. It was the same day, though. But not at the same theater, which I said already.”
“But what movie?”
“Oppenheimer.”
“Like the bomb one?”
“Like the one about making the bomb, yes.”
“And why did you see such a light-hearted movie twice on the same day at two different theaters?”
“Umm, good question. Well, it’s because they’re making this big deal about how they shot Oppenheimer in IMAX cameras and are showing it on actual IMAX film if you’re lucky enough to live near one of 30 places around the world. Like film film. And anyway, the original ticket I bought was for a digital IMAX film which is better than like a normal movie theater but not as good as IMAX film film, which is supposed to be like 18k resolution or something ridiculous that digital still can’t compete with. So I had to buy another ticket for the film film and the only ticket left was in the front row.”
“Wow. You’re like into this, aren’t you?”
“Yeah… I mean I have probably close to a dozen books about or relating to nuclear weapons…. Which, maybe I shouldn’t bring up on a first date… But I guess it’s too late for that. I mean, I think they’re like the dumbest things in the world, but they’re just so interesting. Like, the science and—I’ll just, uh, shut up.”
“Yeah, nukes might be a little strange to lead with. Like coming in too hot, you know?”
“Was that a pun?”
“Unintentional.”
“Oh.”
“But the movie, was it good?”
“The movie? Yeah. I mean, I think I built it up in my head to an impossibly high standard that’s impossible to live up to on a first viewing. But the second time I got to see all the nuances I missed the first time.”
“All the nuance of bombing the Japanese people?”
“Well, you don’t actually see that part, because it’s told through Oppenheimer’s point of view. But maybe we should change the subject.”
“Good idea.”
…
…
“You’re not Japanese, are you?”
“No. My dad’s from Hong Kong.”
“Oh, good.”
“Good?”
“Not like, good good. But like—”
“Oh my god.”
…
…
…
…
“So what did you do this weekend?”
“I saw Barbie.”
“Just once?”
“Mommy, mommy!” Little Becca yelled over the adjacent grocery store aisle. “Look over here!”
“What is it my little darling?”
“Look at this purple box I found! Isn’t it pretty? Can I have it, please? Please?”
Carissa walked around to confront her three-foot-tall monster.
“Honey, what purple box? All of the boxes in this row are black.”
“It’s not black… it’s purple.” Little Becca said meekly, a little embarrassed.
“Oh no. Are you having trouble with your colors again?” Carissa felt parental frustration rise up through her. She is nearly four years old, and she still has trouble with even the most basic colors. But it’s not her fault that she’s black-purple colorblind. It’s really her deadbeat father’s fault. She would have never had a one-night stand with the guy had she known he could only see gray, no matter how cute he was.
“Yes, my little pastel songbird. This is black—more precisely it’s heather gray. And if we take this heather gray box and walk for a wink, then we find ourselves in the purple aisle. See? This is purple, but that was black.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“Sorry? What could you possibly be sorry for? My little amber chameleon, you don’t need to be sorry. You did nothing wrong.”
“But I messed up my colors again. And Anna says that I’ll never get to be a grown-up if I mix up my colors.”
“Anna? Anna who? From school Anna?”
Little Becca nodded her head gently. That little cunt needs to keep her mouth shut. I mean, yes, Carissa did worry about the color problem. It’s hard to get into a community college if you mix up blacks and purples, much less a real university where you’re expected to distinguish forest green and slimy green like it’s child’s play. Because it is. Oh fuck, maybe that little cunt of a runt—or is it runt of a cunt?—Anna is right.
“Oh don’t listen to her, my pearl. Didn’t you once tell me that she can’t even touch her toes? And look at you over here, able to do both types of splits willy-nilly. That’ll take you much further than colors. I promise—and I’m a grown-up, so I know these things. Now let’s go home.”
“The sun is sinking in the west
The cattle go down to the stream
The redwing settles in the nest
It’s time for a cowboy to dream
Purple light in the canyons
That’s where I long to be
With my three good companions
Just my rifle, pony and me
Gonna hang my sombrero
On the—”
“Grandpa, you can’t say that anymore.”
“Can’t say what?”
“Sombrero.”
“Why not?”
“Cause, grandpa—you’re white.”
“Oh c’mon. Just singin’ an old song, now.”
“Well, you have an AUX chord?”
“A what?”
“How can I plug in my phone to listen to some music?”
“You ever hear of an invention called the radio?”
“God, you’re old.”
“Mhmm. There’s two types, too: FM and AM.”
“Isn’t there XM radio nowadays?”
“Never heard about nothing like that. All I know is FM is for the tunes and AM is for the lunes.”
“What’s a lune?”
“Yeah, those religious lunatics. Maybe you don’t got those out in California.”
“Oh no… uhh.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nose bleed.”
“Ah, well look in the glove compartment. I got some spare tampons in there you can use so you don’t bleed all over my truck.”
“Grandpa! Why do you got tampons?”
“Now don’t be getting me in trouble with your grandmother now. I keep ’em in there for exactly this reason—ain’t nothing better at stopping nose bleed than a tampon. This was a fact I learned when I was about your age from a 15-year-old Timmy Waters. Must’ve been just after Kennedy died—”
“You were around when Kennedy died? You’re that old?”
“Of course. Lived my whole life in Dallas. Anyway, Timmy and I, we were out walking, and his nose just started bleeding. He whipped one of them suckers out and plugged that tube. Timmy always got nosebleeds. Headaches too. So his momma made him start carrying around these tampons so he wouldn’t bleed all over his shirt. Course we teased him a bit, but in hindsight, it was damn smart thing to do. Poor bastard—turns out he got those nose bleeds it turned out from some tumors in his brain, just behind his nose.”