Keep Looking at Me

Gun to your head, explain why you deserve to live more than other people. you can’t can you? You can at least explain, I don’t deserve the mercy, but spare me. I simply do not want to die. You can tell he’s bluffing, finger held away from the trigger, we’re right in the living room anyway, right by the front door. The sound, the mess on the wood floor, it’d be too noticeable.  It’s not even loaded. It’s not even real. Well, it could be real. it could be loaded. but still.  

You know, you don’t have to do that. I want to be here. I’m asking for it. I got in that truck, and walked through that door. Not only that, but eagerly.  

I know, but seeing as you got in the truck, and walked in the door, and took direction so well, I know you need the structure, the extra attention. Don’t make me say any more. You’ll ruin it. 

White plaster spatters on black work pants, grey chore coat, black cap. You find it funny that he keeps the hat on. But it’s not funny, it’s dead serious. He was on his way home before going to the grocery store and filling his cart with things like Coca Cola and Wonder Bread. An Andy Warhol exhibition of things no one thinks twice about. Though the brand names suggest the  trade pays well, or well enough.  

You basically follow him to his truck, you creep. You struggle with your bags. Your bags are filled with things even less of note. You’ve been staring wide eyed for a while now. You drop something. He picks it up. Something kind of embarrassing. Something that rolls a long distance, and takes an awkward amount of time to stop its motion. Fill in the blank however you want. 

Obviously, he has to be about 10 to 20 years older than you. Though he’s doing really well physically, on the external, not to mention or ask about the state of his liver, lungs, kidneys, and probably heart as well. Whether or not he has a choice in it, he’s been breathing in fumes longer than you’ve been alive. 

Your heart, however, isn’t doing so well either. You think it’s beating loud enough to be heard, it probably is. Other internal organs are just reaching their first tipping point.  

You want a ride home?  

You don’t want to say something stupid like ‘I’ve never done this before’ so you don’t. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself, and you’re usually truly foolish. Really a sorry excuse for a man, but a man nonetheless, damn it. You just get in. Bags at your feet. Cigarette smell and assorted  paint rollers, tools, pieces of plastic, papers, etc. It’s exactly how you’d think.  

To skip ahead, he doesn’t drive you home. Not to yours anyway. It’s a pretend game. Say you’re doing one thing, but meaning another. The words and the tone mean different things. You’re surprised you guessed correctly. Again, you’ve never done this before. Heavy boots heave on the pedals. Driving can be like taming an animal. It’s dark. The road and the sky are one black expanse. The salt speckles the ground. White plaster, black pants.

Now inside, the screen door pauses then slams. A quick scan for signs of life. Any evidence that  anyone other than one man lives here. Though at this point it’s too late to back out. But hey. What do you know. 

Luckily it’s pretty obvious no woman could live here. It’s barren, dusty, and depressing. It’s not dirty exactly, just untouched. You could almost see the path he takes, based on what wasn’t perfectly in place. You could surmise a routine. There’s not footprints or anything like that, but you know it’s not a shoes off at the door kind of place. Now looking in further detail, you can see  a dingy stainless steel fridge out of a cutout in the wall, with a solitary child’s drawing attached  by a plain black circle magnet. Look away quickly, you’re not supposed to see that. 

This is it, now. Everything in its right place. Him sitting before you, you on your knees. Of course, not to mention, the handgun, to be a little more specific. As in, for people more than  animals. It’s almost like being knighted.  

Get to it, you know what to do 

But actually, you really don’t. You fumble nervously. You’re so nervous you’re essentially  vibrating. Fear for your life right? Not exactly. It’s more like stage fright, or the feeling of being  around a high school crush. Weird. 

Not only do you not know what to do, being as you’ve never done this before, you’re really god  damn awful at it. It doesn’t matter though does it? Just stop closing your eyes. Keep looking at  me, damn it. Round, bewildered cow eyes. You are truly trying your best, even though he’s  bluffing. Of course, bluffing. Pretend game. song and dance. You hate the silence. You try to elicit even one sound. You want to not be so terrible at something, anything at all. Though this  isn’t one of the most useful skills, in your case anyway, but talent can always be lurking  somewhere, in any situation. hopefully one will arise some time. It has to. 

Even still, it’s been a while, so it doesn’t take much. You knock it back like a shot. He looks at  you like you’re the crazy one. Maybe you are. Then he drives you away, for real this time. Not  all the way home, he doesn’t care to know where you live, but close enough.  

There’s a lot of reasons why this hasn’t happened before. Other than the obvious- there’s something in your soul that you wish away, but stays. You lose pieces of yourself to fantasy, to;  dare you even think about thinking the word; love. It’s almost a sad goodbye. It’s not as if you’re  thinking about staying, living a life of laying at his feet while he sits in his chair, eyes closed, TV on whichever asinine news channel of choice until eventually he moves catatonically to the  bedroom. Where you follow closely, and what? Sleep? And live like this? No, but you get the  feeling you always get when parting. A sort of, ‘did this mean nothing to you?’ Which, of course,  it did mean something. Just not in the way the question asks. What it means is, and what you’re basically sure of, is that he’ll call the mother of his children and ask that when she drops the kids off if they could talk, and when she says ok fine, that he’ll say he changed and wants to go back.  And you hope she has some sympathy, but you can imagine that he has the shadow of you in 

his eyes, and she’s a little sad and maybe disgusted but not surprised. Any path out of loneliness. 

But you know that’s how it has to be. And you, how selfish, have youth, at least a little bit,  though it wanes by the day. You have what’s most valuable, a little more time. And you suppose it’s fine to be just a speck in the grand scheme of things, taking up space, hopefully somewhere far away. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, just take advantage while you still have the taste in your mouth.

Luc M is a writer and musician in New York City. He’s the founder of Moral Crema art collective.