My pot dealer boyfuck…

Is gone, solid gone, and then he comes back and then he's gone again, and I’ve even got him on my goddamn digital camera, a myriad of shots—in all of them he’s leaving. He likes the dramatics of placing his hand on the door handle of his Lincoln. He stops with his fingers curled under, like the handle is a delicate seashell or another boy’s ball sack. Then he looks back at me, giving me a face like it’s the end of the world. I’ve come to realize that regardless of whether he’s actually leaving or not, it’s important that he has this moment, this pause with his hand on the door. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole leaving thing was constructed just for the sake of the moment. He’s such a faggot that way. All the same, it makes me shut up. Like when I was a little boy watching my father leave to go to work: I felt a strange mixture of anxiety coupled with a real desire to take his place that was so strong I’d usually be doubled over with stomach cramps a few minutes later, right after his trusty pine green Volvo pulled out of the drive.

I remember how I pressed my head into the wall and beat my skinny white neck with my fists. But that’s what being a fag is all about: you desperately want your own thing—you want there to be a show and for you to be able to run it. You want to go to work so bad, it hurts. C'mon, girlfriend, you know what the fuck I'm talking about. You can't tell me that even as a child you weren't all about making the green, making the scene...

Anyway, my pot dealer boyfuck needs to get back up to Purchase. He’s got customers up there, and his own credit card machine. He’s got it rigged so that an eighth shows up as “Miscellaneous” on a bill that looks like it came from the University bookstore. It's a genius system and besides, his shit's good. No wonder his pager lights up non-stop.

Neither of us even brings up the possibility of me going with him. It seems absurd that I would leave the City for some dorm room in a college town. In the end, the whole thing between us is too stupid for any of that, and we both know it. At points our actions are almost farcical.

The Terminator

He started up his car, some Dead C feedback nightmare blasting over the system. Suddenly he realized that he's forgotten his hat--The Eagles skully he just had on. He checked his jacket pockets, the corner of the car's sun visor...Nothing.

"But I just had it," he said, blinking heavily.

"That's what you get for smoking so much," I said, as I lit a Gauloise Blonde. I squinted and shifted my weight, like I was getting ready for him to make me a deal. All around us the afternoon was very clear.

"That's OK," he said, looking me straight in the eye. I felt myself being pushed by invisible fingers, right in the squishy part of my gut.

"The good thing about short term memory loss is that you remember whatever it was eventually."



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