Skarpety

     John LaCada had finally appeased those absurd, tiny abominations of nature; his French bulldogs were resting more or less peacefully in the corner of the living room. Hardwood floors ran throughout the house, but the dogs had multiple pieces of bedding and embroidered pillows of their own to lay on and they had found some comfort in one of the oversized dog beds marked with their initials. Christian was sure that it was more their smell than their initials that led them to the bedding, but either way he was grateful for the momentary silence as he had come to John’s house to relax, eat free food, play video games and generally pretend that he didn’t have other, more pressing things to take care of in the outside world.
    As they both sat down on a perfectly worn brown leather couch and waited for the playstation welcome screen to fill the void, Christian thought about some of those outside world, those real world, issues that would have to be taken care of sooner than later. He made a mental list. Bills - car insurance, gym membership, cable and internet, lawyer fees from a mistake years ago. Errands - he needed a physical for health insurance, he needed shots if he wanted to travel outside the united states, he needed to get groceries, he needed to return a movie to redbox, and he always needed some new socks. When looking for socks he had two categories that mattered; thin and tiny white gym socks that couldn’t be seen above the top of his sneakers, and long dress socks that were comfortable, not too thick and definitely not boring black or blue. Christian also wanted to find some inspiration, he wanted to figure out his place in the world, and he wanted to make a difference.
     The last few things, the more esoteric and less exact things were always hovering over him and weighed more than the bills or the socks. He wondered if taking care of the grocery list would help on the path to inspiration, or if it were the other way around. He look at John, his best friend at the moment, and briefly envied his sedentary lifestyle. The plainness of it, the simplicity of having the metaphorical white picket fence and very real wife who would have dinner ready, the perfect itunes library, the family within driving distance for the holidays, the sense of finality and security that came along with all of that must have been comforting. The closest thing he had to that stability was the auto-pay feature on his car insurance.
     Christian took a brief inventory - what did he have that John didn’t? He had traveled, he had a broader range of experiences, he had better stories, more girlfriends, more heartbreak, more close calls, and more debt, baggage, and uncertainty. Christian caught a glimpse of LaCada’s socks out of the corner of his eye. 3/4 cut plain white socks that were no doubt folded or balled up perfectly and sitting in a designated sock drawer before being selected for the day. But really, he thought, if you chose one pair of socks from the other dozen identical pairs, were you making a choice at all?
     “What are you scoffing at?” John half asked, following Christian’s gaze to the floor.
     “Nothing dude, just thinking about all the shit I gotta do after we finish this game.”
     “Well, I’ll go with ya,” LaCada responded, “I don’t wanna sit around here all day. This place blows.”

Kartofel

     The semi-blind date was set for the following week, on a Wednesday of all things. This way they could both have an excuse to end it early, Christian figured. Although his excuse would be a clear fabrication, as his writing "career" didn't necessitate that he woke up at any particular time, or that he woke up at all, really. The thought made him chuckle; the chuckle of a sad clown. He stepped out of his apartment and into the sun and was grateful for the altitude that Denver provided as it kept the sun a little closer to his face on these brisk winter days.
     Walking south down Jersey Street he was trying to remember where he parked. His apartment building had a parking space for him though he refused to use it out of spite. He once commented to the management company that ran the complex how ridiculous it was that his spot was on the other side of the massive building from his apartment. They responded by moving his spot even further away, to a corner spot under a tree. Where birds shit on his car all year long. That's not to say that the spot went unoccupied. After the parking spot moving incident he went on craigslist and found a car for only $200. It didn't run, was rusted on nearly every viewable panel, had only one seat, and in fact didn't have any engine in it at all. It was perfect. He called the number, negotiated it down to $100, paid $75 for towing and his spot was soon occupied by a formerly grey, now brown and white, hunk of garbage and eye-sore. The bird shit was quite literally the icing on the cake.
     After remembering where he had parked he picked up his pace a little, and made it to the corner of 35 and Jersey just before 8am, when parking fees would be enforced. The black civic came to life quickly as he turned the key and was instantly transported to the night before when Ween had been playing in an ode to his manual labor job days. He fiddled with the iPod until The Beasties infiltrated the air and he lit a cigarette and pulled away.
     He was on his way to John's apartment. He had to get out of his own place for a little while and he also wanted to extract some more info about this girl. Also, John's wife, Sarah, was gone for work for a week which meant video games and weed smoking was the new black around their place. She was some type of buyer for a women's clothing store at some mall that he had never heard of. He had known her for ten years.
     When he pulled into their driveway twenty minutes later he could see John through the window, either playing with his English Bulldogs or yelling at them. Either way, there were hands pointing to the ground and loud noises. Christian almost knocked on their garish front door, but then remembered that the doorbell set the dogs off and couldn't help himself. He rang the doorbell and heard the sweet sound of two dogs barking, ready to defend their house from whatever terror was outside.
     "Jesus Christ, dude," John wasn't as soothed by their barking, "You know they hate that shit."
     "I know," Christian responded, "but I wanted to let them know I was here."
     "You can just open the door. You don't even have to knock. It's easier for everyone." John had said this a few times before. Christian stepped in and looked around.
     "So when is she back again?"
     "Next Tuesday. Her mom brought me some food, like I'm gonna starve otherwise. It's in the fridge." Christian went to the fridge.
     "I thought she was Japanese?" He asked.
     "She is." John replied, still trying to calm the dogs with promises of snausages.
     "And she brought you fucking mashed potatoes and pork chops?"
     
     
    

śnić

     The night before he would agree to go on the blind date, the one with the expected awkward hug and unexpectedly dry armpit, Christian had a violent dream. In this dream he was running through some type of marsh just before sunset. Though his feet weren't getting wet from touching the marsh, or stepping on any wildlife it contained. They were somehow on a boardwalk that seemingly extended in every direction. The running wasn't violent. It was the people who suddenly appeared and were chasing him that were making the dream turn violent and creating shades of a nightmare. They were movie style stereotypical mafioso. Dark suits, slicked back hair, and a lot of weapons. As Christian ran they destroyed they boardwalk behind him, never quite catching him, but never falling very far behind, either. He turned to look back for a moment and when he did the boardwalk collapsed beneath him.
     Christian woke in a sweat. Not sure what the dream was about, or where it stemmed from, he was, like a good martini, slightly shaken and not too dry. He immediately felt ridiculous for being scared about a dream, not to mention having compared himself to a martini, and guessed at the time before checking his phone. It was almost 4am. He had guessed 3am. Either way, he was hungry and there was no time that would stop him from getting up and checking the fridge.
     Raspberries, kiwi, two day old rice noodles drenched with sriracha and soy, peanut butter, and half a bag of spinach. He checked  the cupboard and the choices were even less appealing. He went back to the fridge and pulled a kiwi, elected to not peel it, instead he cut it in half and scooped out as much tart green filling as he could without damaging the skin, eating each scoop with his elbows propped on the counter and his eyes half open. After drinking nearly a pint of water straight from the faucet he managed to get back into bed without slamming his toes into any of the furniture as he had done so many times before and drifted off to sleep.
     John called him at 9am and he ignored it. John called him at 10am and he ignored that too, electing to play dead to the outside world for a little while longer. At 11, showered and pretty but with no place to go, he called John LaCada back and got no answer. So absurd, he thought, how the fuck could John want something so bad as to call twice, yet not answer a return call. Christian found his laptop and collapsed onto his couch, a well worn relic from the early 2000's that used to be black but was slowly fading into something between black, grey, and brown. Someone suggested once when he was bemoaning the color that he should call it fifty shades of grey, but Christian countered by explaining that that was a ridiculous name and only a hack would call anything by that moniker. Should he also call his loveseat hogwarts because of the lumps in the cushion, he wondered to the unfortunate soul that was simply there as a friend of a friend. Maybe that friend of a friend was just being topical, or maybe Christian was just a little high strung at that point.
     Christian was informed that had only 5 free articles left for the month on nytimes.com when John finally called him back.
     "Dude," John started, "I have a chick who would be perfect for you and the best part is that she is kind of getting over a relationship too."
     "How is that the best part?"
     "Well, I mean...She's not bad looking either, and she's pretty cool. Plus my wife wants to set you up with her so that's what I'm doing. I'll text you some pictures right now."
     "How do you know her?" Christian asked, "And why is your wife so worried about setting me up with someone? I'm sure I could find someone if I wanted to."
     "Look, will you just do it as a favor to me? It'll stop Sarah from bugging me for a little bit, and then if you have more than one date with her, we can double date and it'll be an excuse to hang out and get drunk, and they can talk to each other."
     Christian looked at the pictures coming through his phone.
     "Fine. One date." Maybe if he went on this date he could start forgetting about HER.

Nielegalny

     After their eyes unlocked and their gazes drifted elsewhere, Christian was tempted to look back again but was painfully aware that if he looked and she didn't it would be momentarily crushing. Instead he looked back to his table; to John, to Mikey, and to the girl they called Mallo. John was occasionally Christian's best friend and occasionally they wouldn't speak for months at a time. They first became friends in high school, John being somewhat of an outcast and Christian, based on his recent transfer to that school and immediate status as freshest fish in the sea of hormones and teenage invincibility, being an outcast by default meant that they were pressed together in the back of classes and had only each other to turn to. John would wear Sid Vicious shirts and claim allegiance to Cuba despite his Dutch ancestry. Christian would wear dress shirts loosely buttoned and jeans that were not designer by any stretch. The problem that each faced in high school was not so much in finding their own way, as it was getting others to follow. They both played football and basketball for the school. Both were in AP classes for language and not math or science. They were not unpopular.
     During their senior year they each ran for an office in the student government. John for secretary, and Christian for treasurer. They both lost. Christian lost to someone that had only been pressured by a teacher to add her name to the ballot at the last possible minute. Her last name started with a Z. John lost to a write-in candidate who had the longest last name in the school - and it was hyphenated. She was added to the ballot the DAY OF the election. After their losses, after they had each given a five minute speech about the good they would do for the student government, after John had refused to play Yankee Doodle on the Piano for Christians walk up music, they were stunned. John more so than Christian, as he couldn't believe he possibly lost to a write-in candidate who was, by all accounts, less popular than himself.
     Christian was less shocked, but decidedly more agitated. He sought out the teacher who doubled as head of the student government. She was an older lady, unmarried with bad breath and short hair that was permed and colored. They had never gotten along. He was an athlete and popular, she never had the pleasure of actually having him in class and so assumed he was used to getting special treatment. Christian demanded John follow him and they soon found her in the halls after the election results were announced.
     "Show me the ballots and results." Christian was not good at hiding his designs at that point.
     "Well," the overly empowered teacher replied after a moment of hesitation and sideways looks, "They are no longer around. We destroy them after each election." At that point another teacher, more sympathetic to Christian's nature came out of the teacher lounge and was accosted.
     "Are the election results destroyed after every election?" Christian asked the innocent teacher, with the fire of someone who had been wronged (as a teenager) for the last time. The teacher shrugged and not wanting to upset the perm, moved along quickly.
    "I personally count the ballots and then shred them as soon as I'm done," the bad breath breathed out with a look of contempt like a cherry on top.
     "This is BULLSHIT!" Christian pronounced, "There is no way that you sit there and count each ballot and then shred them. You simply picked the two candidates you wanted to see win because you don't respect us. Or you don't like us. What were the percentages then? How close was it? I want a recount or a re-vote!" Christian was giving her an opening, a chance to say something that may stop this madness.
     "It was very close. That is all I can say. A few votes either way would have changed it, but it's done now and there will be no recount or re-vote, as you call it. I have a class to get to and I'm sure you both do as well." The perm was impenetrable. John LaCada watched from a few feet away, anxious to not step on anyone despite his god damn Sex Pistols tee shirt and mohawk. His was a rebellion by visual deterrence.
     "Fuck this," Christian said, staring at the soulless eyes that gave the perm vision. "We both know what you did. And only one of us feels bad about it." He walked away, John followed.

Ją

     One day before the awkward hug Christian heard from her. Not the hugger, but HER. She was going to be the one. She was the one that had made his heart skip beats, ache, want, and ultimately break into pieces when she left him. To be fair to HER, Christian was not long term material when they had first met and started dating. In fact, in retrospect, he probably would have been better off, they would have been better off if they didn't date so soon after meeting.
   It was impossible to keep him from HER though. He first saw HER as she was busy making her way through a tightly packed Italian restaurant. He was eating with friends, all of whom somehow blended into the murals on the walls almost immediately after HER arrival on the scene. She was Asian, he guessed Chinese, and wore her hair short - especially on the sides. The walls that his friends had blended into were dark red and tan, and told the stories of Italian Generals and politicians. The clothes she wore were black, and did not blend in to anything. He was pretending to listen to a story about life in a cubicle from one or other of his current companions as he watched HER scan the small main dining room, find her friends (at this point Christian noted that her friends looked far more European than his own) and seemingly glide over to them without having to walk at all.
     "Was she floating on something?" is what he wondered, somewhat ridiculously. Of course she wasn't. Of course he was just caught up in the moment, imagining the ways he could possibly meet this siren who was not even trying to lure him in, but managed to do so anyway. She sat with three other people. In order from left to right - A silly looking dude with an actual beret on a mop of blonde hair and skinny jeans that made him look like he belonged in a zoo for failed hipsters more than in the presence of HER. A black woman with large breasts and a larger smile that wouldn't stop as she raised each finger one by one, as though she was counting up to something for the benefit of the table. A sullen looking white male, clean shaven with brown hair styled to look it it wasn't styled, wearing a metal choker and checking his phone. He hardly noticed when she sat down and put HER hand on his leg.
     This was devastating to Christian. Him? HER? Of course he considered himself superior to other mortals, and had already been planning the first few dates with HER as she sat down and the sullen white male continued to check his phone. How could this person not even acknowledge this creature sitting next to him? What kind of world would it be if she ended up with sullen phone-checker? Where was th-
     "Christian!?" Someone at his table apparently didn't care about what was going on over on the other side of the room. That someone was John LaCada. He had unblended himself from the walls and was demanding Christian be somewhat accountable.
     "What's up dude,"Christian responded as though he had just come in from the ocean carrying a surfboard. "What're we talking about again?"
     He stole another glance at HER and amazingly she stole the same glance at HIM. This was when his heart stopped for the first time.

Matka

Right before the awkward hug ended he remembered his mother.
     ‘Everything in your life so far has led to this moment,’ is what Christian’s mother was fond of telling him. Only she was repeating this hyperbole to him at such a young age that he hadn’t made any choice at all that lead to that point. Perhaps he chose crunchy peanut butter over smooth, or raspberry over grape. Grape was the worst. The idea of grape jelly as well as apple juice made Christian’s stomach turn at an early age. But really, what choices were those? In his mind it was the same as a death row inmate choosing his last meal. These were not choices that made a difference. He expressed this to his mother around the age of ultimate reason, in third grade. Age eight.
     He remembered the day he connected the dots and told her that he felt like a death row inmate.
     “What are you talking about?” she demanded, her reddish-brown hair, shoulder length and mostly straight, spun around first and green eyes followed before landing on Christian. She had always tried to keep the tone in the household a positive one, and this was no different. To her, even mentioning the word death was off limits. She had given away his action figures the prior year because they were too violent.  She was leaning hippie with a foot in the professional door.  Though at the time Christian was proclaiming his death rowmanship, he assumed most moms were the same.
     “I’m on death row. No matter what I choose, I don’t get to make any big decisions,” Christian explained. She came closer, and leaned against the side of their wooden kitchen table and crossed her arms. She assumed the role of inquisitor rather easily.
     “Well, would you like to tell me where you heard about death row?”
     “No.”
     “That’s fine. When you tell me about that, I’ll let you make a choice about your future,” she said as she turned away, effectively swiping Christian’s thunder and rendering him momentarily mute.
     He paused and considered his options. Seconds later he took a course of action.
     “I heard about it from Nick.” Nick was his best friend and Christian figured he’d throw him under the bus since he wasn’t there to defend himself. He squared things in his own mind by allowing that Nick would certainly blame him for anything similar, and he was okay with that. He had actually heard about it from someone else, one of the trailer park kids, who claimed his uncle was on death row and that the lights in the whole jail would go out when his spirit left his body. Christian knew his mother wouldn’t be pleased about him hanging out with those kids, though the reason wasn’t clear. Either way, Nick took one for the team.
     His mother didn’t turn around to acknowledge his admission, rather she continued walking away while talking, “And what kind of decision would you like to make today?”
     “I don’t even know yet.” He had somehow won the right to make a decision, and like a trump card to hang on to, he wasn’t anxious to waste it without some thought. “I’m going to my room but that doesn’t count, “ he said as he walked away feeling as though he suddenly had a whole new world of possibilities to contemplate.