What Day Was That Exactly?

Not around, not for years. Left in a hurry, shaved his eyebrows right before. Had a car, one of hundreds, abandoned it. Lived by his tools, left them at his sisters. Sheriffs interested. Sheriffs not interested. According to a 3am conversation after a ska show after seeing angels in america (don’t do this!), come to find out jake’s friend’s father was either in cahoots with him, or was the subject of an escape that he was assisting in. This is as close as I’ve ever come. I let the subject drop.

Made her cry in a parking lot when she spoke her fear about him being dead, and his body abandoned. But he aint worth killin. That was glib. I learned I had a heart of stone. She broke down.

Mentioned north, mentioned south. Mentioned east, but not very. Never mentioned west, because we are west. If you go wester you drown.

During phantom pain, I chased him on I-80, late model ram truck to mid-70s beetle. Not good. Could not catch him. Convinced myself I was hallucinating to avoid the fact I had failed to bring her the only thing she really wanted.

Count them one two three four five six. After seven, if someone has the time and wants something of yours, they can have you declared dead. According to the agenda, it is my responsibility to perform the research on this and report back. Facts, please. Timelines. Probabilities. Budget.

I feel he’s dead, but I don’t know how all you feel. To the right: I think he’s dead, but I don’t think about it much at all, we can’t know so why worry. To the left: He might be dead, but we can have him declared dead if enough time has elapsed. Thank you. We’ve determined that, what’s your goddamn hurry already. To the end: I think there’s no evidence he’s alive or dead, so I prefer to think he’s alive, and fallen through the cracks. Call me sentimental. Maybe I just want revenge.

I size up every criminal mesomorph to determine if it’s him. I beat him in my dreams, my fists like cotton. That’s for her. That’s for him. That’s for the drumset you sold without my permission. That’s for her again, and so is this.

During the day she would get the calls. Caller says nothing. She says Hello? Hello? then her friends told her to keep talking, so she talked. About what, I wonder. What kinda friends are those? Where is everyone’s common sense? The disbelief is making my ass quiver in alarm. I listen to the rest and think ohhhh, so it is possible to shit yourself when under extreme stress, like here, at the kitchen table in broad daylight.

Then one time, a call came about ten oclock at night and she couldn’t understand what was being said. It was all garbled. She couldn’t understand the caller. It was very frustrating. Surprisingly, the phone was snatched away from the caller and a voice asked for her by name. Her name. Clear as a bell. When she answered, the conversation was disconnected.

Since then, no calls. She thinks he double-crossed someone. She thinks he was being held against his will. She thinks he was being abused. She thinks he died slow and his corpse was defiled.

March 27, 1995

No entry in my calendar.

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