Drunk Dial

There are these funny stories in my head of happenstance encounters and stupid things I’ve done, that I probably should put down to the page before they get lost in the tumbling shuffle of my mind.  Flashback to about four months ago:

So  it’s two o’clock in the morning, and the bar is closing.  I’m that perfect amount of intoxicated where I still want to go out and hang out, but I’m not entirely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent in control of all my faculties.  There’s this girl that I’ve been seeing for the past few weeks, and every once in a while I give her a call and we hang out.  Sometimes we play backgammon, sometimes we just stare out at the stars and have deep introspective conversations.

Tonight feels like a backgammon kind of night.  So I scroll through my phone and give her a ring.

“Hullo…?” I can hear her hoarse voice through the speaker as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.

“Hey there, beautiful.”  I purr.

“Haha what?  I think you have the wrong number.”   Her voice sounds familiar.  But something is… not quite right.

“What are you wearing?”  I slur.

“None of your business.  You’ve got the wrong number.” the voice on the other line crackles like tinfoil in the microwave.  Yep something is definitely wrong here.  I feel a momentary sense of dread, akin to what a Meerkat must feel moments before it is snapped up by the hungry maw of an apex predator.

“Kira?”  It’s a question shot into the black expanses of space.  A life preserver cast into the ever growing void of my own confusion.

“Yes.”  she answers impatiently.

I know this voice, but something just… isn’t meshing.  And I am either too drunk or too stupid to figure it out.  Like when you’re having an amazing dream where you’re fighting off the bad guys and saving the princess and right when you’re about to kiss her she turns into your Great Aunt Gertrude.

And suddenly it all clicks.

I peel my phone away from my burning cheek and stare down at the screen.  Y’know how they say a cold shower or a hot cup of coffee is a good way to sober up after a night of drinking?  I’ve found a better solution.

This was not the girl I play backgammon with at two o’clock in the morning.    No no no, this was my old Bosses wife; a kindly middle-aged woman who I worked with at my old restaurant job. The woman who was always making sure I ate enough vegetables with  my employee meal.  The woman who constantly gave  me relationship advice on how to find a “nice girl” instead of a “crazy one”.  The woman whose kids I helped with their homework during downtime,  and helped unsnarl their bike chains so they could ride around in endless looping circles in the parking lot behind the building.  She was part Mother figure, part mentor, part all around nice lady.  And I…

(in all my infinite wisdom and clarity)

… just drunk dialed her at 2am.

She and the other “Kira” both had the same first name, and their last names were almost identical save for two letters.  Easy to notice sober, especially easy to miss drunk.

*Click*  I hang up as fast as I can.  Maybe she’ll think this was all a dream. Any alcohol left in my system has been quickly purged and replaced by the swift flow of embarrassment coursing through my veins, side effects including a painful awareness of each agonizing second and syllable I spent on the phone making an ass of myself.   Even if she doesn’t remember it, my name and number will still show up in her caller ID log.  Gah.

– – – –

It’s eleven o’clock in the morning the next day when my phone rings.  Mother-Hen-Kira is calling.

“Hey Kira, I’m so sorry…”  I stammer, even though she is miles away my hands shield my face in shame.

“It was very nice hearing from you last night.”  She begins.  “How have you been?”

She asks me about work. She asks me if I’ve been eating my vegetables.  She tells me about how before there were cell phones, boys would actually have to call a girl at her house, so when a boy drunk-dialed, usually it was a pissed off father answering the phone instead.  And suddenly, all my face-palming-shame is washed away.

“Next time, maybe don’t call so late.  Be a good boy.”  The conversation ends.

I am an idiot.  But at least I’m an idiot with good people in my life.

Bump it with:

My Refrigerator

My refrigerator is haunted by ghosts of girls gone by.

Gochujang from that crazy girl who liked to set my world on fire.

Kona Longboard in tallboy cans from The Matchbox Racer who cursed like a sailor, but kissed like a school teacher.

Moscato from The Scientist who spent her days tinkering with the windows to the soul, to give the world a brighter vision of the future.

Coors lite bottles, from the wild girl that started with hiking and a sandy cove, and ended with dinner and karaoke, and all the while whispering “popo haejo…

And most recently, spicy buffalo sauce from the Warrior Poet who I would eat chicken nuggets with at 2am in the morning.

…I think I need to go grocery shopping.

Bump it with:

The Siren Sings Back

You speak my words
back to me so sweetly.
Folded, and twisted upon
themselves, completely.
Be you song bird?
Be you lark?
Hatched from an ivory egg
with my name-song in your heart?

We are not the product of our circumstance.
Nor are we the summit of our birth.
No, we are at best–
— actions and words.

Should you strike untrue by an inch
you strike Untrue by a mile.
So take heed, and take aim.
May your arrows never stray.

Because we lay naked and adjacent
not just as vessels,
but as souls.
And the lines where I end and you begin
have blurred.  

And if you bend the light round’
the halo on your head,
to blind my eyes instead,
you’ll find a lonely century
without me.

Kira and the Poet

Oh, you.
You were my first real fan.
Oh, there were girls in short dresses
who batted their eyelashes
when I told them I was an artist
of sorts.

But you…
you were the first one to’
know me from nothingness
solely on the merits
of my open words.

You reached across the darkness
with the depths of your curiosity
and were all the more enamored.
And like the moth to the flame
I singed your pretty little wings
and pinned you up with the rest of

“Them” 

Because Darling, 
This is how beasts like us end.
Not in triumph, but in dust.

I saw the money in your parents,
and the cuts’ along your arms
and I was familiar with the nectar
of your poison.
Were I a boy ten’
years younger,
you’d be more than enough
to bring me down to me knees.
And I’d rip out my heart willingly,
for you to wear round‘ your pretty
neck as I lay clutching
the open cavity of my chest.  

But today,
you’re a pleasant memory
to warm me
like the lingering whiskey
in my glass.
And the ice is melting faster
than expected.

Bump it with:

The Escape Hatch and the Fire Axe

Today, I am the Escape Hatch.
Temporary-distraction of
digital parchment correspondence.
With the flashing feathered quills,
promising flesh and thrills
through the wireless ansibles
over the hills
and through her heart.

I am the Escape Hatch.
Cotton-comforter-confidant
where She lay bare and recanted
stories of her ill-fitted tilt-stitch-world
where the crooked seams
somehow aligned between

the twisted sidewalk
and her heather-blue dreams.

With each tenuous step
under the cloudy dander white lines
floating through the irreverent skies
as our gazes are fixed on the ever-growing

crack.

in the ceiling.  

I am the Escape Hatch.
Cold-steel-shield and He is the Fire Axe
surrounded by uniforms and flashing
lights after he razed her possessions
and left red marks around her neck
in his obsession
to make her
love-  him – back.

He may not know my name,
but he knows what I am–
The obsidian obelisk
a midst the crops of his happiness,
and he can neither turn me
nor’ till me

so he burns her fields instead.    

I am the escape hatch.
The final twist it took to seal her
entirety for eternity on the other side.

Until the rain ran past
the red rust in the hinges
reduced to ruin,

and the handle immovable,
and the decision, irrevocable.

Goodbye.  Adieu to you.  

 

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