of the space heater, in the silence of a half-empty, rented room,
No Name misses no one. Morning, Mom reminds him to swallow
one tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. Yes, before him, random,
filtered snapshots. Trapped in a lofty, 46-year-old frame, thumb
and pointer fingers greasy from canola oil, how he wants to erase
twenty years, crash-study psychology, and listen to win. Surely,
guitar leaked into his genes at three. No, a drumkit, and a crowd,
and various pretties. Yes, there was the cooking era, but the head
of his spatula came loose. Next came drag racing, but he always
choked on the turn. All his life, he’s longed to be king. Followers,
the…one…great…award. No Name could never take care of Julia.
Black toolbox, loaded garage and all, he hammered. The takeout
dinners were never normal. Yes, he tried to last through the night.
Tied himself to the bed once, but in sleep, the knots came loose.
All around, many are fat, but he’s…bingo…at his summer weight.
Off and on, he lost his sanity this year. Off and on, eating crushed
ice, he gained it back. No, there is no animal. Julia got the pit bull.
But somewhere, hungry bears fish, slapping cool water, dealing
with near-misses. Yes, inmates wear whatever blues. For cellies,
many days are inside out. If they’re lucky, the hot plate burns red,
and they score Ramen at the canteen. Downtown, rat-faced Dougie,
the born-again ink slave, swears he’ll cover up No Name’s bad tats
for less than spaghetti. If he becomes a clean-skinned millionaire,
will he end up like Mom – closet-crouched down with one ill-fitting
shoe? Famous net photos. Yeah, inviting. A balloon-lipped, skin-
and-bones, local girl. All his life, No Name has longed for fans,
a willing crowd at the supermarket. As the pandemic’s filthy hand
lingers – nose to mouth – whether or not he wears his American
flag gaiter, maybe tonight, he’ll find the bony girl’s close address,
unpack his rotating crackers, wash his hands thoroughly, rise up,
and kill the neighbor.
C.A. MacConnell
