Stanis and I were sprawled out
on the uncomfortable prickly mess
Jason tried to pass off as carpet
our backs pressed into what felt like
colossus toothbrush bristles but
that sticky October evening
we couldn't have cared less
the taste of summer lingering
in the backs of our mouths like the after taste
of charcoal-filtered vodka and orange juice
screwdrivers we'd been mixing in our mouths
since the second we showed up at Jason's attempt
at a party but was nothing more than
an extra ordinary collection of loud-mouthed
small-town kids lounging around
with personalities as predictable
as the black eyeliner, teased hair, Bauhaus
t-shirt formula they shared for
looking dark and mysterious
only since that was supposed to be a special event
they were trying their damnedest
sporting shopping mall replicas
of thrift store clothes
crammed into Jason's $165-a-month attic apartment
chain-smoking clove cigarettes and
trying to hide when they coughed
speaking with bogus British accents
as if they'd hide their boring American backgrounds
based on beef jerky, bong hits, and
microwave burritos
to entertain ourselves, Stanis and I created
a drinking game in which we took
shots each time we heard a reference to
Anne Rice novels, graveyards, tragic childhoods,
or the expressions "killer" and "intense"
so it should come as no surprise
we were sloshed and obnoxious
laughing and taking bites from the exceedingly
soggy slice of tragically hip and misunderstood
as they fought for attention
any sense of importance but then
I saw him standing in the corner
scraggly dark hair tossed around his shoulders
onto the walls in messy strands graffiti-tickling
gaunt faces of models perfect and magazine glossy
he inhaled a short forever from his cigarette and
smiled at me with black eyes narrowed into slits
I felt myself ignite like the Marlboro cherry
dangling from the end of his lips once I realized
he was watching us watching them
his jaw cocked sure and randy
snicker curled in the corners of his mouth
as if he was in on a big secret
which actually he was 'cause
like the expression goes
you can't bullshit a bullshitter
I'd heard it from Stanis at least a million times
so when he whispered "Uh uh - red flag -
stay the hell away" that made Michael
all the more desireable
he stepped across the room and
stepped into my life
stepped all over obligatory smalltalk about
how he'd seen me around or
he thought I looked pretty cool or
have I ever heard of the band...?
instead I got to know him through the stories he told
about his fetish for breaking into
rich people's homes
hanging out, kicking back with big-screen tv's and
expensive wines till the police or
security service would show
then he'd hide in a closet or behind a tapestry,
beneath a bed, listen to 'em boast about
nothing wrong
and all their restoring order shit which usually was his cue to zap 'em with
his cattle-prod stun gun
none of that hand-held miniature bit
he owned a magic want that could clean a room
with the flick of a wrist
he never stole a thing without a couple of uniforms
flopping around on the floor in shock-spasms
'cause that's what made it fun
just like when he was wired on
cheap Hell's Angels crank
and snagged somebody's Alfa Romeo just so
he could take it apart and scatter pieces
all over Little Rock
he thought it'd make a great insurance report
he made life sound like a game he re-wrote
as he whisked across its board in a whirlwind
surviving alone, spinning smack-dab
in the eye of independence
he seemed sexy and streetwise and tough
without sounding stupid
which excited me so greatly
I could barely contain myself
we bailed Jason's sinking ship of a social event
and headed back to my place
where we tiptoed through the door's emergency exit
and marked the start of our deep and meaningful
Gen-X post-John Hughes apocalyptic romance
Stanis sort of disappeared from the scenery
that three-week stretch
I didn't have time to hang out with him
when I was busy smuggling bananas,
boxes of cereal,
and anything else from the cafeteria I could find
to keep Michael from starving
I'd sit around and wait when he'd slither
late-night through my dorm's window
and scale the wall
without a simple goodbye, which struck me as
strange and poetic in a very nineties way
as I wondered if I'd ever see him again
if he'd get shot in a fight with some gang
o.d. on smack he scored off the street
get thrown into jail to rot
by the time he'd saunter back to my room
my stomach and nerves were crushed-up
like aluminum cans
which usually kept me from class but
as soon as I saw him, I did my best
to act nonchalant:
re-cycle a sigh of relief with his steel kiss
remind myself he probably knows no other way
must've known nothing else in the past
he told me next to nothing about
I was sure it was hell though
somebody must've loved him at some point
at that time I thought I did
which is why once I stepped with him into the night
white tattered t-shirt on his back a beacon
that led me over fences, through alleys,
around playgrounds,
backyard pools, I tagged along the trail he tore
just tight enough he didn't notice me behind
pad in my pocket, in case I needed notes
about his secret ways of crime
I followed, sure he led me down a path of danger
more intense than anything I'd thought
or heard about
I was starving for excitement, so hungry for a bite
strands of saliva hung from my mouth
but at trail's end was no pot of gold
but a stucco home the color of dried tuna
a front door Michael opened by key rather than
screwdriver or stolen credit card
floodlights in a constellation that came to life
when I moved towards a window, tried to peek
through its slats
I was lit on display on the well-trimmed grass
framed for Michael's mother, a chubby lady
who popped outside
like some sort of parent-in-a-box
a blaze of fuzzy-blue-nightgown fury
her face contorted in disgust
as she screamed about how I should be ashamed
poking around on their private property;
she'd had enough
of snotty-nosed brats, ill-bred punk rockers
& democrats like me
being bad influences on her sweet little Mikey
keeping him out to God-awful hours of the a.m. &
causing him to get bad marks at school
and detention
just what was I trying to prove, anyway
bullying her sweet baby
I stood speechless, the situation making no sense
till I found out he was seventeen
I didn't know what to say so
I watched the sweat shine on her cheeks
mounds of flesh which shook as she rambled,
flapped as she screeched
her mouth an opened map to a world
of PTA meetings,
baloney sandwiches, gospel choirs,
and country crafts
as common to him as to me
that reckless little wanna-be street-smart daredevil
he slid into my life like a soft whisper
but faded to a dull outline
a stretched-out shadow lingering inside
his mother's home
he watched her bring the truth to life
watched her watching me
smile
about the things I learned he wasn't:
mysterious, powerful, mean
as I turned and walked away
grinning wider still
I loved him most for what he was
a scared boy trying to hide behind a leather jacket
and look tough
he never came around again
I haven't seen him since
still some night thoughts of him keep me awake
the times we shared within a slot when
neither of us was sure of much of anything
wrapped right in colege, the world of make-believe
just as it starts to seem real to me again
suddenly it's morning and I wake
to milky bright sunlight gushing
through the windows
waves from my loud alarm clock
rippling throughout my bare apartment
no furnishings of Michael, Stanis
no traces of Jason to be found
the only things to push away or clutch
a wad of cold sheets on my bed

Photo: Nicht Bohn