Here is a short thing I wrote about a CD release party in 2005. A guy bit me, and I scared coworkers.
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.