He shut the door behind him. The room dark, not yet bathed in morning light. The keys jingle as he tosses them into the wood bowl, just inside the door. The dog like a white ghost on the couch, eyes closed, snout buried under the arm cushion, lost in dreams of buried bones, or fields and fields of leash free grassy fields, or roaming through a gargantuan bag of lamb treats. He bent, feeling the bite in the back of his hamstrings, blood rushing to his head, unties his shoes and stands, feel the pressure in his back and shoulder and neck, “it’s official, buddy – I am old” he says out loud to the now snoring creature. In his stocking feet he tries to walk quiet to the kitchen, the floor boards squeeking under every step. He hits the under counter light, sees the dirty plate and glass, and milk container and yogurt left n the counter by what feels like the other specter, who is tall and teenaged and leaves empty packages in the pantry, and tubs with no ice cream in the freezer.

Less TV more reading

Less films more standup

Less quiet more music

Less for granted more everyday is a gift

Less expectancy more gratitude

Less booze more mocktails

Less obsessive compulsions more possibility

He came in the back way. The door is the only one in the house that doesn’t creak. The lock is loud but being a level down in the kitchen it’s hard to hear. I hadn’t realized he was home . This morning saw the two tumblers on the counter. They still smelled like malt and peat. A small pair of red high heels were left tidely by the back door. The door to his room was shut. Behind it only silence and faint snoring. Must have been a good wedding then I reckon. I reckon so. You remember those days, days were built on freedom and opportunity. The possibility of a strangers smile turning into the stroke of soft skin, and the brush of hair against your face, the sway of hips as you dance, lips against your cheek, an embrace relaxing and exhilarating all the same time; then a nightcap and sweat and morning. Those were the days, my love. Those were the days.

Holy, dogo i am old! It’s official. the large dog with brown eyes and a beard recently gone white sitting by the side of the bed tilted his head, to the left then quickly to the right. Seriously man, it’s true. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet flat on the warm carpet. His palms on the mattress and one, two , three – standing. He hobbled in the dark down the hall to bathroom. Walking stiff legged and slightly bent. Felling like a bowstring just starting to be pulled. Yoga, I should do yoga, was a thought that Kay amongst the other jetsam on his minds beach at two am under a full moon. He lurched back down the hallway, stepping over the dog curled in the threshold of the doorway, half his body inside and half his body outside the room. You can sleep all week spread eagle, the whole bed to yourself, his wife had said, the morning two days ago on her way out the door for a commuter flight to Huston where she would be for three days for a project kickoff. And though it sounded great, like it always did, and though he smiled when she said it, he knew it fidn’t work that way, at least for him. And although he gained a night of not being pushed, and punched and told to roll over, or adjust his head, or leave the bedroom because he’s snoring, he also loses a night missing their oresence, missing her soft breath and the smell of her hair, and her touch in the middle of the night, in the middle of sleep, her soft fingers momentarily on his chest, a subconscious checking he is still here.

Beef cattle, he said. Said as if somehow I should have known the answer along. Lime if I should have studied it in school. As if it were so plain a thing to see that he couldn’t imagine anyone asking about it. Uh huh, I said. 3300 head, he said, 368 acres just south of big bend Texas. Wow, 3300, that a huge heard. Not really he says, we lost 1200 to the bovine flu last year, cost us damn near million dollars. He drained his beer and flagged the barkeep for his bill. And what you do, he said, bet ha sure as shit it ain’t cattle. No sir, you are right about that, I have never really been an animal guy, insurance, I sell insurance. Uh huh, he said putting his credit card back in his wallet. And what exactly do you insure? Well, body parts, specifically special body parts. Special body parts , huh. His mustache rising on his face as he smiled. The brim of his ten galleon hat casting a shadow across top half of his face. Yessir, but maybe not what you think, we insure soccer players feet, pianists hands, supermodel noses, that type of thing. He slide off his bar stool, I best be going, he said. Don’t want to miss my connection. No, I said, you do not want to miss that. The heels of his cowboy boots striking hard against the tile walkway. He walked up the concourse limping slightly on his right leg. His duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Minneapolis must be the moon to him I thought, before ordering another beer.

He lay in the dark. Looking at the ceiling with the bright streak of streetlsmp light that snuck through the curtains. The bed sheets tucked in tight at the bottom of the bed, the way his cleaning lady had been doing it for years; the way he had been asking her not to do it for years. The quiet outside, still, no cars, no raccoon fights, no pedestrians stumbling home sloppy from the bar, only the faint train whistle only heard on nights like these. And for whatever reason he thought about Wanda. Thought about her crazy laugh; the way she laughed with her whole face and her whole body; the way it exploded out from such a small person, the way it always made him smile. The way he didn’t really know anything about her. Did she have siblings? Where did she grow up? what was she passionate about? And as much as he tries on nights like these he still can’t recollect. He didn’t love her. Though he said it aloud one night? Not because he was expecting it in return? Not because he felt that that way? But because for whatever reason it wasn’t working. They had had gotten to the chasm

Do you even like coming here she asked? In darkroom, cold breeze through the open window, the down duvee pulled up high. A question that he himself had begun to ask. No, not exactly a question, more the start of an answer that nobody was going to like. “Yes,” he said. “It’s beautiful up here” he said. Knowing this was not the answer to the question. Unprepared to unveil the apparition that was slowly taking shape in his brain. The haunting apparition that all this, all this boating in the open water with the cold and the wet and the water snakes and the teenagers who now have boating licenses and the abscence of adults and the granting of boat trips alone; all this finding and dismissing of rattle snakes at the top of the neighbors drive; all this bugs and flies and dirt; all this eating half cooked hotdogs and burnt marshmallows from dirty sticks; all the campfire smoke that follows you no matter which direction in which you attempt to escape; all this planning of activities when all you want to do is get on the highway and survive the couple hours home; all this close contact and small spaces and inability to pull away to find privacy to withdrawal; all this talk with friends who are family but at times you just can’t or don’t want to find the words; all this sleeping in bunk beds and constant envisioning of the top bunk sliding off the posts and crushing on the child lying below it; all the sleeping on the uncomfortable couch because of the snoring and the small bed; all the worrying about the dog trotting off leash around blind corners and being struck by on coming vehicles and dying or worse.; all the feeling that this is so fucking selfish, all the feeling that he’s robbing his kids of the joy and wonder and magic of first times, of boat rides, and top bunks, and smoke and fire and burnt marshmallows. Robbing them at fucking gunpoint. Worse even maybe. At gunpoint he would take away the magic, pocket the wonder and be off. But this, this isn’t a mugging, it’s a drowning, the ever present obsessing about the exponential worst in every situation, the scenarios fully played out that always end in darkness, the split second allocations of danger, never to be reversed, the worry that sits on their attempts at shiny fun like birdshit and rust.

Listen up, this the important part. Oh I am serious alright. Dead serious. In fact, you may want to write this down. Yes for real. You have a pen? Paper? Good. Here it is/ – I want a tree on fire. Did you write that down. Uh huh, I said fire. F-I-R , no I know, you know how to spell it. Good. Can you do it? Your sorry why? My god, can I be any more clear, I want a tree on fire. No I get it, you are confused. It’s a simple request though, isn’t it? But of a yes or no situation. Seems to me. So, once again, once and for all, can you provide a tree on fire? Okay, nice meeting you as well, take good care, drive safe.

He saw the water in the rowing wheel of the stationary rower two steps into the hotel gym. Water that sat at the bottom of the fly wheel that provided the friction for when you rowed. Interesting, unique, intriguing some might say, but not Carl. No siree. Not even close. To Carl it was a dange. His first thought of how long had that water been in there. What kind of bacteria was breeding in threes, what kind of mold spores were evolving, looking for a way out. What if he were rowing and some of that water splashed out, splashed on his skin, his face, his lips, his tounge. What sort of slow agonizing death would occur, what moss would grow around his brain stem slowly muting the signals to his organs who begin the slow march of shutting down after the signals from the brain grow quite then silent,how could this possibly be considered safe? DANGER!!

Do you like coming up here his wife asked when the adults had gone to bed. “It’s nice to get off the city”he said half believing this was true for him”. “No,” she said, “I meN seeing L&T”. “Of course” he answered. That part was true, but cottage life. Hiking in the woods when the neibours only last week had a rattlesnake at the top of their drive. Stuck on a boat, wet, cold, no washroom, dog walking ahead down the curved gravel roads worried a car will careen around a blind corner and knock him dead or worse, injure him to the point that we would have to put him out of his misery. Where, sometimes at night, he gets tired of conversation, where for some reason, unbounded to him he just wants to escape, and starts by quietly withdrawing, by closing down contributions to conversation, by listening more than speaking, by counting the minutes till everyone says goodnight, by worrying about dangers of tomorrow’s activities being proposed tonight, secretly hoping they may be forgotten in the morning, knowing they never are.

It was getting late. Maybe 11:30, maybe 12:00 or 12:15 on the outside. He had promised himself just one episode of x then he would go to bed. But one episode became two, three, four(?). There was a scotch in there somewhere and multiple bowls of Rice Krispies. He shut the the Netflix down, and the weather Chantel appeared on the screen, and the time shown in the upper left corner of the screen: 2:07. “Fuck”he thought “there’s no way”. He glanced at phone “2:07” his apple watch “2:07”, looked into the kitchen at the clock on the stove “2:08”. “Shit, shit, shit” this was not the plan. What happened to reading, what happened to going to bed early, what happened to not getting up at 10:30 and feeling like he had slept his entire Saturday away. He turned off the TV, stood, laid on the couch, thought maybe he could fall asleep quick, get 5-6 hours and be okay. But as he lay there after turning off all the lights, checking all the doors, feeling warm and easy from the scotch, he knew, knew clear as day that he was way overtired, way overstimulated and sleep was not to be had.