Fiction I

"I'd say the nightmare is always the same, but that'd be a lie. People say that shit in movies. Every night I have the same bad dream. Bull fucking shit. I live a nightmare. It ain't when I'm sleeping. What happens if I sleep, that shit is just a dream. Parts feel real. I can seem'im clear - not really his face - but I can see the parts of him I saw - and it feels real. I can feel the blast, but not see it, cause I never saw it. But I know all of it is fake. It is all fake. When I have it, the dream, I know it's bull shit Because when I wake up - that's when the real nightmares begin."

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My keys. I need my keys. Got my ruck sack. Got my water - my keys - need my keys - my d-tags. Got my gifts for my niece - my grand niece - wait - wow - "Hey! What is Joey's grand daughter - what am I - I ain't yelling! Whose yelling! I'm just projecting my voice, Mair. Hey, what's Joey's grand daughter - what am I to Kayla, and I her grand uncle, in-law? What does it matter?! Mair, all I'm doin' is askin' - I can't ask a question! Ah Jesus Mair, whuthufuk! Yeah, I'm goin', don't worry aboudit." Got my ruck sack with the gifts. Got my water. Got my disc man with my Hank Williams. Got my - my great grand niece I guess. I'll be dipped in shit. What is she - what am I to her - let's see - Joey is my wife's brother and she's his granddaughter so I am her - Got my wallet - got my - ha! That Hank Williams boy, he can sing boy - There's a tear in my beer - got my ruck sack - Where's my keys?

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I hate finding him passed out - or asleep - because this is the only way he does sleep. He's always in the most uncomfortable positions. Tonight, he passed out slumped over at the kitchen table, his arm holding a mug half filled with now-warm Meister Brau. His head never hits the table, just rests on his chest, which barely raises and lowers, so he looks dead. A layer of stubble covers his face. His glasses, a thick plastic tortoise shell colored frame pair of old school Buddy Holly type glasses, are still on his face. His portable CD player was on the table too, next to scattered cards and envelopes, the family address book, its black plastic cover and red tattered spine, splayed out in front of him, open to Aunt Michelle's latest address. Older ones, all written in the old man's block printing - the man writes like a second grader taking a spelling test - have been crossed out in pen and practically take up the entire page. That woman moves more than I don't know what the fuck. He had managed to write a few cards before going out cold: to two of his God children, my cousins, Kevin and Michael, one to my brother, Sean, and his two kids. He passed out in the middle of a note to his sister who lives in California. "Dear Mich, how are you lass! Top of the morning to you on this fine Saint Patty's day. I hope this note finds you well and in good spirits. Me? I am fine. Hey, here's a Saint Patrick's Day joke for you: What is left out on the lawn all summer and is Irish? No, its not your brother, Chris. Give up?" That's where it ends. God, Pop - how many times you gonna tell that same fuckin' joke? No wonder you passed out when you did. At least you took of the headphones. Should I help him to bed? Let'im sleep. Don't know when the last time the old man actually kept his eyes closed for more than twenty minutes. If I mess with him he'll probably start doing dishes or vacuuming or some shit and go until he crashes again, if he crashes again. Let the fucker sleep. Probably the best thing for him. How the fuck were Sean and I conceived if he can never make it to his own God-damn bed room?