Here is a short thing I wrote about a CD release party in 2005. A guy bit me, and I scared coworkers.
"My Education"
Bobby the night
engineer would call at 4am to confide things. “I do not like my job,” “Whiskey
leaves a bad smell.”
Once he told me he'd been thinking of faking his death. I
asked how.
“It will look like an overdose…” he whispered.
“People will believe
it,” I said.
This, the year of my education. I learned to stop kissing my boss,
be fearful of the Halsted street police who struck me in their cars and
mourned the death of tsars, and soon after I lost my limp Bobby returned to
become our shitty Lazarus, threw a revival party in October. Everyone came. Leaves
hopping from trees made us cinematic. Denim boys smoking outside with neck
tattoos made me nervous. As I ascended the stairs I heard a thud, and I arrived
in time to see everything begin.
“That’s no way to treat a lady!” – the last thing Greg said before
his nose was shattered, a milk carton exploded against Bobby’s chest, a man
with a swallow on his throat bit my thumb while friends leaked through the window
onto neighboring roofs. This went on for some time.
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