Me and Melinda downtown on a Friday night -
My idea of a date:
Waiting around vagabond slop in a loft where you can hear rust mess drop,
Molded beer on the counters and no idea of the number or business card that brought us here to this brownstone project.
Melinda squeezing the bones out of my hand, trying to lock spines.
He came out of the one bedroom in striped boxer shorts wearing yellow dish
gloves with a cooking whisk and a jar of Vaseline with hair matted on the lid.
I had to push her towards him.
I wasn't allowed in to watch.
The sound was something unbearable.
My eyes caught wift of a blender on the counter so I turned it on to drown her out.
I'm the worst kind of person for these things.
Twenty three minutes later she came out and ran straight to the bathroom
with a towel wrapped around her.
He came to me with another towel.
"You take."
"Whoa, what do you expect me to do with this?"
"It's bad enough for you to come here, you think I'm gonna have this lying around
my house? What do you want I should do, use it as an ashtray, or a door stop?"

Melinda lay in the backseat, falling in and out of conciousness, hand resting
over her eyes, too tired to cry.
It's a rough ticket.
I drove to Snake River and parked by the edge of the water.
I'm real emotional trash.
I opened her door and she crawled out of it on all fours, sluggishly trying to stand.
I opened the truck and pulled out the towel, cradling it under my jacket and we
walked to the water where a two feet drop off led into a pipeline, pumping out
suburban shit and restaurant piss.
"Do you want to have the heart in this situation, Mel? Because I'm not going to."
You piss and moan about those first loves, but they never come back.
I bitch louder than anyone, but I can't move mountains, I can't deflect bullets.
I thought I'd never move on towards who I needed to be with, towards a person
who didn't best resemble Hell, and she stood before me on the verge of passing out
into the river, with down syndrome eyes and drool running out of her mouth, in and
out of the frame, leaving it up to me.
I couldn't look at her like this.
This wouldn't be the nail in our coffin, but it would be very close to shattering my dreams of guitar feedback, of a loft downtown where she worked on comics and I wrote, of opening that record store, of arguing about the better Pavement album with other underappreciated scholars, of having my blood stain the downtown sidewalks until another generation pointed their fingers at those tall buildings, those foreclosed banks, yelled "BANG!" and brought them down to rubble to create new jobs for construction workers to put money into this furnace where a city might one day emerge from tied bone huts and skin canopies.
I took her back to the car and laid her down, wiping her sweaty hair out of her face and I put it back in the trunk. I brought her home and carried her up three flights of stairs - My future bride and me hoisting her up the threshold to her good life. I laid her down to sleep and left.

I walked those police steps with the confidence of youth and I lay that cardboard box down by the door. I gently placed the towel inside it and left the box cracked open just a bit so no one would hastily and carelessly pick it up amidst confusion of what was inside. I rummaged through my jacket pocket for the pen and wrote the note, placing it inside - "From Gen X, with love." I went back to the car and sped off towards apartment lights burning out.
Poor advice.
Usually, When encountering a prose piece, I click quote and have my browser check the spellings. The results were indeed intriguing, and I therefore felt necessary to tell you:
"Wift" was not recognized as a word, and yes, that is backed up by a quick check in a real dictionary.

"Conciousness" is a typo, the dictionaries insisting on "consciousness"

"Underappreciated" was not a word either, and I assume you just mashed the prefix under- with that. Just bung a hyphen in between I am told.

Beyond them, I am unable to help you, but I will just say that I am please you didn't write explicitly about sex. Although there are certain bits of subtext implied by subtle phrases that I am still displeased to see, they have become a shell you write within.
Much obliged.

The spelling errors are a result of how fast I wrote this down.
It was on the spot, to an extent.
Poor advice.
That was great but do you mind clarifying exactly what happened? All three times I read it I though of a different conclusion. First I thought the narrator was a pimp and the girl was on call then I read the end and went "want..." then I reread it and thought they had gone to a doctors house and had delivered an unwanted baby but then I read the part about putting it back in the trunk and then I thought that they had had a late term street abortion but then that made me dislike the characters even though I had really liked them upon first read. ****ed with my head a little but I loved it.
Honestly maybe I'm just retarded but read it again and I still can't tell exactly what's happening. The words sound great together but they are very vague in parts. It's not like I'm a low level reader either it's just that their are no concrete elements to the piece that I can see. It's all emotion and imagery which is great but it doesn't lend itself to being easily interpreted in the way the author wants.

Edit- Pretty sure it's the abortion one though.
Last edited by Silver Hammer at Jan 10, 2009,