treatswords

I wake on a stranger’s front lawn.

This is low, even for me.

I think as I wiggle my feet in the grass.

They say it’s called rock-bottom, but what about lawn-bottom?

I consider laughing at myself, but feel my head split in two, chopped wood from too many whiskeys.

I sit up, the sun is hot, deciding not to take an easy on me.

“You deserve to be miserable.” It sneers, golden spit coming from its mouth.

I am near the stoop, tossed beside the slab of cement like the morning newspaper.

I picture the house owner emerging, robe tied tightly, black slippers on. Opening me up to see what headlines were released today.

DRUNK INTRUDER CAUGHT STEALING LAWNS

They smirk, sipping their coffee from the other hand until they see the lanky body stretched across their grass.

I wish I was small enough to fit inside their mailbox. Curling into a small ball, missing a stamp. The mail carrier doesn’t know what to do with such a large, unmarked package, so he leaves me there, smelling of hot aluminum.

I would leave me there too.

No one is expecting me, In fact. I’m swatted away with newspaper like a rabid dog when I appear at my dad’s front door.

I don’t blame him.

I stole the money from his sock drawer.

I left with his camper keys in hand, leaving only a rectangle imprint in his yard when he woke.

I’ve stolen booze.

Slipping plastic bottles of R&R beneath my shirt, rectangle bump showing as I slip from the door.

The drinking got out of hand after she left.

The diamond ring, cut in an oval, just what she’d wanted, left on the center island with a post-it beneath it.

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Four small words coming from someone I thought was bigger than that.

Her things were packed and gone.

I found one of her notebooks stuffed in the back of the closet.

Calling her.

“One of your stories is still here, yellow notebook, bedroom closet.”

“Oh, that’s okay, you can just toss it.”

“But don’t you need it? Isn’t it part of your novel?”

“No, I can just write more, the yellow notebook was first draft ideas anyways.”

I scoff.

“What?” She says.

“I guess your yellow notebook and I have that in common. We were both your first drafts.”

She sighs.

“Thanks for the call, but I have to run.”

And that she did.

Ran away with my heart.

I’d hoped it would find its way back to me, I’d tagged it, silver hanging from its neck.

“Please call 218-249-3008 if found.”

But it never returned, and I suspect it was never found.

I’m convinced she buried it in the back yard with the rest of my scattered belongings.

A missing sock of mine, bottle opener shaped like a bear’s mouth. All covered in soil.

I drank to forget the void left somewhere in my chest. If I poked my finger around I could usually find it. Tender, bruise like.

I stood up, wiping the grass from my Carhart’s.

I was thankful no one stopped to check my pulse because they wouldn’t have found one.

A school bus pulls up, small faces glaring out the window at a man who was slowly putting himself back together.

The front door of the house opens, a small blonde girl with pigtails emerges, lunch pail in hand. Father behind her, dressed in a navy suit, brown leather shoes.

I take off running down the road, away from the cul-de-sac, away from the adults who had it figured out. I was always behind in life, moving at a glacial pace.

I spose that’s what happens when trust is stolen. Moving forward becomes difficult.

But I’ve never been good at changing, growing. I like to stay where I’m comfortable.

That’s why I took this job on the road, inspecting pipelines for a paycheck.

Living in my dad’s old camper from the 70’s, smelling of the years he sat there, beer in hand, cigarette smoke painting the walls in nicotine.

That’s why I went with Jared.

I’d known him since middle school. He was familiar, didn’t challenge me.

And he liked to drink as much as I did.

I figured out where I was when I saw the blue house on 3rd street. Turning onto the dirt road, the old camper parked on hot cement.

Walking up, opening the door, Jared sitting at the table, peanut butter toast on a plastic plate, coffee cup in hand.

“Where in the fuck have you been?” He asks.

“Some lawn.” I reply, peeling the hat off my head, wiping the sweat from my hairline.

“Shit man, you had me worried. Glad to see you found your way back.”

I glance at the coffee pot, empty glass.

“Did you drink the whole pot of coffee already or what?” I say, glancing at the ceramic cup in his hand.

He smiles, pulling a bottle of Tito’s from his pocket, 50 ml.

“Grab a cup, let’s have our morning cup o’ Tito’s together, whatdya say?”

I grab the last mug from the small cupboard.

It reads, Hattie’s Hat.

The words arching over a small bouquet of flowers sprouting from a sunhat.

The cup from the morning I’d proposed.

She left it and I kept it.

Maybe to torture myself, or maybe as motivation to keep forgetting.

I emptied the bottle in the cup and sat down at the table.