Taaka

Taaka
Mark Coleman

I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a knock on the door. My friend stands there, slightly shaking, with a bottle in his hand. I grab the grapefruit juice, and we have the vodka equivalent of a salty dog. His girlfriend left him after he had a seizure.
I talk about who I’ve fucked, and who I might actually love. Smiling seems like a task. We discuss escorts, but it comes to nothing. Instead, we decide to spar with copies of Keroauc and Hemmingway strapped to our fists.
I can’t remember who wins. I think that an uppercut from Death in the Afternoon took him down. He thinks that a clock from Desolation Angels dropped me. He starts crying. I pour him a shot, and tell him that it was probably Jack.
We remember our individual pasts. At first, it’s all Vegas and bar fights. Then the conversation takes a turn, and it’s no longer ill conceived bets and broken noses. All of a sudden, I’m confronted with the image of my ex-girlfriend with a needle in her arm. I picture her turning tricks so that she can stay high.
Now, I’m the one in tears. I’m informed that it was probably Ernest. We compromise by establishing that it was a good fight, either way. On television, people without any visible scars tell their hard luck stories. Disinterested, our eyes try to unearth as much as a stretch mark.
We pass the bottle back and forth, watching in silence. Next door, my neighbor’s pulling his own stash out of the water tank. His wife patiently waits as he downs a pint on the toilet. I walk to the bathroom, and stand pensive with a cigarette in my hand. As always, it doesn’t flush right. I try to plunge all the tears that I’ve dumped into the goddamn thing.
I walk out, and find that my living room is empty. Simultaneously, I let the boob try to revive me, and I let the shot try to sink me. I’m paralyzed by the knowledge that most of the girls that I’ve been with were raped. Usually, told everyone around me, first. Then shamefaced and under pressure, admitted it to me. They always convinced me to take the bullets out of my gun. I wish that they hadn’t.
I muster up the energy to retrieve the thing from it’s hiding place. I lay it on my lap, and let one world after another tear into me. Lifting it to my head, I say a prayer to someone else’s god. My finger trembles on the trigger. I bite deep into my lip and taste blood. It makes friends with my chin as a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I realize that the only thing loaded is me. I throw the gun against the wall, and get another drink. It tastes like shit, and I yell myself into detox. Surrounded by cowards, I collapse.