Friday, April 1, 2011

11-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, talks to God.

Hey God,
it’s me Noah Fagalosi.
I hope all is well with you, and you worked out that issue you were telling me about.
My mom tells me bacne is common among active men as they get older,
it really has nothing to do with cleanliness,
more with your gene pool,
and yours is divine,
so it is strange that your back is littered like a page of connect the dots.
I wouldn’t worry about pockmarks though,
you’ll probably heal as fast as Wolverine.

When I told my mom about your problem she said:
“Tell God to use benzoyl peroxide” then a bottle of it showed up on my bed.
She must be confused,
what’s your mailing address?

The other day I heard her shouting on the phone
“How in God’s name did I get herpes?”
Was she talking to you? How did she get your number?

She wont let me sleep in her bed anymore.
She said she had a “flare up” and didn’t want to pass it on.
I try not to be a jealous person but why would you give her something
and not me?
I decided to start taking the pills on her nightstand.
She said they’re only for her,
but I know that you left them there for both of us.

She was shouting your name really loudly the other day
when she brought
Doctor Solomon from temple
home after their date.
She calls him “Jackpot” and “Matzoh balls” to her friends.
I don’t like the way he twirls his long sideburns at our breakfast table.
Please get rid of him.
I know he’s not on your team anyhow. 

Regardless, please look after that mongrel
Cranky Gene.
He was a good dog, but dumb as a bag of Protestants.
Let him sleep in your bed once in a while,
and forgive the stench of his drool.
Talk to you soon.

11-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, questions God.

Hey God,
me again, Noah Fagalosi.
Thanks for getting rid of Solomon;
his curls still litter my bathtub and carpet though.
This new guy who she calls “My first black;”
he is ok.
But he makes mother scream your name so loud it wakes me up at night.
Please do something about that.
Are you both in there with her?
If so, wake me up.
You know I like fun things. 
Next time I hear this, I’ll come in,
I know you wouldn’t exclude me.

Now to the issue at hand.
Yes, you probably know what that means,
well I didn’t.
I had to look it up.
Google imaged it in fact.
How did you let this happen?

The kids at school have a nickname for me,
it’s really simple, can you guess it?
“Noah Fag.”
Again, I thought it was endearing
until I looked it up.

Excuse my French but:
Ta mere est une pute.
That’s right I bet you wish you hadn’t given Mom
money for French lessons now.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean that.
I know Mary is the furthest thing from a harlot.
But how could you?
Why would you give me a name like Fagalosi
knowing full right kids are cruel.

Timmy Peters called me FAG
while we were in the bathroom this morning.
He said I was watching him pee.
Cut his little dick off.
I know that’s horrible but I’m serious,
he needs to learn.

John Harrison asked me to play catch last night.
When I wasn’t looking he threw the baseball at my stomach.
I threw up, and as I did he called me FAG.
He also spit on me and told me I was going to hell.
God, please cut his little dick off.
How will he learn otherwise?
Am I really going to hell?

And finally, after soccer practice on Tuesday,
Tim Gunther thought he saw me looking at him in the shower.
He screamed “Noah the FAG is watching me shower,”
and everyone ran out of the locker room.
I was actually watching him scrub, but only out of curiosity,
I swear.
Please, please, please God.
Cut his larger than normal dick off.
After all he is a Born Again.

Thank you for hearing my prayers.
I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk about you this time,
but I’m all ears when you want to vent.
Seriously though, rethink my last name
or I might have to consider Scientology.

P.S. Did the bacne clear up?


Thursday, February 24, 2011


Originally printed in the December 1998 issue of Rolling Stone Magazine.

It’s pit stain hot as it tends to be in Los Angeles on any given day, but as faded and fabled rocker Ziggy Sawdust pulls up to the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset just past Doheny and gets out of his 1987 MG convertible, his lanky stature blocks the sun.  Coincidence? Or is the sun as afraid of this gangly, obtrusive, recluse as we are? He shuts the door as his rusty little car puffs exhaust like it’s an exact personification of Ziggy himself; he tells me later in the interview his “day car” is in the shop. He has the disheveled look of a man who was born on a bender, a man who’d drink gasoline if he couldn’t afford booze.  His eyes are bright blue with distinct gray webs piercing through like the Copenhagen Chaw that fills his mouth thought it could escape through his iris. He walks with an unearned arrogant swagger and wears leather pants so tight his little rocker screams for air.  This is the look of a could-be rocker; a would-have-been rocker; a just missed it kind of guy.

He puts himself in the category of “should-have-been U2” band; Shook Up! He says he is better then “almost-was Def Leppard” band; Anvil! And he says he’s inspired more bands with his 1970 debut album “Ruby Cats,” then XTC inspired in their whole career.  He balks at the topic of David Bowie and wretches at the similarities between their stage creations.  He cites foul play all the way. His graying mane of confused locks is offset with a red velvet headband. He walks over to me with a stuck snarl that spits at God and seems to say “Yea, I’m Ziggy Sawdust, now fuck off!” We head towards the back of the Hamlet and I let Sawdust chose the table.  He dramatically pans the restaurant as if to avoid glances from his never-were and never-wanted-to-be fans, and sits at a table right in front of a wall sized poster of “Jailhouse Rock”- era Elvis Presley prancing about on his tip-top-tippy toes.  The first thing he says in his Cockney accent is “Ya know I met Elvis once, daft prick he was, didn’t see what all tha’ fuss was ‘bout.” 

The elusive Ziggy Sawdust, thank you for sitting down with me today.  Before we dive into it full force I feel obliged to say I’m a fan; a part of your cult following. There is little written about your early life, and I’m sure the public as well as myself would love to hear about your origins. 
Origins huh? Well I wasn’t bitten by a spider with Hep C or shot to earth in a crusty comet from Pluto; nothing that unique.

I was born in the rookery, aka the East End basically outside Middlesex, a nice place for prostitutes and criminals and a goldmine for Jane’s and John’s and the sorts. It definitely wasn’t the posh breeding ground for London’s elite, and I was under no presumptions as such. We was poor. There wasn’t even a shitter in my flat; I’d have to go to the communal down the hall where I learned about the ins and outs of intercourse on account of their being no god damned door on the stall.  I’d stand there as some old bugger would shove his rusty knob into the quivering gash of some young twist.  Seriously I’d be holding me bowels as I’d watch his ballbag slap back and forth on her diseased fanny, and all the while think, “well this is life.” That was the only upbringing I needed to figure out life had dealt me raw and I needed to use my talents to escape the filth I’d been birthed in. 
Tell us a bit more about your formative years.  Were there any influences or encounters at an early age that may have shaped who you’ve become?
Ahh I see, how subtle mate, you don’t want to hear about my upbringing in the Mid - you want to hear about good ol’ Davey and his life 15km south in peaceful Brixton.  They all do; that’s what they want to hear. I suppose I’ll indulge you.

David Bowie and I met under artistic circumstances, both taking piano lessons from the same barmy arsehole. His lessons were directly after mine and we’d encounter each other on the regular. Yea, me and Bowie was a passing relationship, fueled by interest in the arts, and circumstance, and thievery. I’d share my drawings with him, drawings that eventually inspired both my and his future stage act and he’d play riffs for me on the pocket guitar he carried about like it was a golden nut sack.  We had an understanding and an appreciation for a quarter of an hour every week. 
As far as what I’ve read you two haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years, what are your feelings towards him?
He’s alright mate - just the sod responsible for me being in the gutter while he sucks sashimi off the indigenous nipples of black super models.  A right twat for his thievery and a genius at the same time…if only I’d known our friendship was a ruse that would last me miserable life. Next question.
There has been hearsay, myth, and blatant lies floating around about the origins of your name ever since you emerged with accusations towards Bowie. What’s the real story?
Right, well, that’s a real simple and clear-cut case, mate.  I was born Ziggy Martin Tommelson February 8th, 1947 just outside of Middlesex, as I stated before.  I came screaming out of my mothers gash a slimy rock n’ roller from the start.

As a result of my mother’s indecent excursions with the opiates and my fathers pre-occupation with creating shit for shit men in his woodshed behind the shack we lived in, I wasn’t born in a hospital.  I came sliding out onto his workbench, right into a fresh pile of sawdust to make for a soft landing and the like…guess we was out of blankets that day.  I looked like a midget sandman, as I rolled around sticky afterbirth clinging wood chips to my naked body. The neighbors reported the screams I echoed were so evanescent, they wanted to get my little claws to sign a record deal right then and there.  My parents stifled me though; they didn’t see my God-given talents and resorted to calling me “Sawdust,” as a result of the pile I was born in and the importance they placed upon my being, which is to say quite obviously, not much.  

Growing up I couldn’t help but be obsessed with the nickname.  It was shrouded in animosity and contempt because I was another lousy mouth to feed.  It ate at me for years, but eventually grew to define me.  If my parents saw me as sawdust, I would show the world that powdered wood was the mutt’s nuts.  From that realization on the 13th year of my existence and forevermore, I went by Ziggy Sawdust.  I would create characters and the like in my notebook of what I aspired to, and I’d sign them all glam and proper in my newly penned name.  That bugger Bowie would sit amazed….little sparkles going off in his starman eyes as I’d create my new persona, and it was a right cock-up that I ever shared it with him. If I had known all these years later I would be the one fagging for him, then things would have gone differently, you can rely.
Tell us more about why you believe Bowie stole your image and just when the inception of this idea happened.
I just told ya, he’s a prat, stole it from me in our piano lessons.  Are you daft mate? Anyway he is a smeg - no he’s less than a smeg.  I showed him Sawdust in privacy, I thought he was one to be trusted, but instead he stole me from me right under my own nose.  Is it a coincidence Ziggy Stardust is so close to Ziggy Sawdust, a man from Uranus sent back to help earth during it’s last few days of existence? Christ the names are nearly fucking identical….so Stardust is from another planet and dressed a bit more fruity pebbles than myself - he’s a thief.  Uranus is fitting for me though, since it’s a commentary on the stinking hole I was hatched from.  I haven’t seen ma and Pawdust in nearly 20 years and it’s been better than the 20 before. I don’t want you to get all analytical on me and start scrutinizing my past though.  They’ve done that before; they’ve all done that before, and that would be the end of this here sit down.

Ziggy Sawdust- Spaceman 

Amongst the cult group of fans you have, you are known for your outrageous stage shows.  There is a striking resemblance to Bowie’s stage shows in them.  How do you explain this?
I see you’ve done exactly no research at all into my personal history mate….I appreciate you taking the time to waste mine.  You’re just another Bowie historian looking to crush the myth and the man behind his successes.

Well how is this for striking resemblance?  I debuted my stage show Ziggy Sawdust and the Termites from Uranus on January 9th, 1972 at the Tabernacle in London.  That is almost a whole month to the day before Bowie pranced out on stage at the Toby Jug Pub in Tolworth appearing like a gothic lesbian hooker.  Do the studying professor - look it up on microfiche at the Rock n’ Roll library, consult a paper or two.  I was getting write-ups about my extravagant stage show days before his was blowing up across the nation. 

As for specific similarities in our act, just look at the facts.  I gave actual oral sex to my lead guitarist Ron Braxton on stage during our first show.  What did Bowie do?  He simulated oral sex with a guitar….save it for the cheap seats mate, go home if you ain’t got the yarbles.  I stripped down nude and wrestled stacked females on stage; Bowie just put on some knickers and pretend-fought like one of those large asian wrestlers with their pants shoved in their crack.  I threw wood into a chipper and blasted the audience with the dust my name was created from.  Bowie spattered glitter around like a tired Johnson during sloppy seconds.  You be the judge. 
Tell us about your latest record “The Man Who Shaved the World,” - is this meant to mock Bowie, or is this a serious album?
It’s a good album. This is not a ruse ya twat.  If Bowie can chase my career and create a life of candy corn for me as he swims in mars bars then I can surely answer back. “The Man Who Shaved the World” was an album I created while I was on the road literally shaving the world. 

I wanted to do my part and give back to the world that rejected me; prove to them I’m not the selfish man they pegged me for.  So I went to the worlds greatest third-world countries like Israel, and Africa, and that place with the leader who’s name sounds like dong, and I did my relief work.  These people are poor - what’s one thing they can’t afford besides food and shelter?  It’s fuckin’ steel blades, razors mate.  So I went to these places and I shaved the Yahuda’s beards; I shaved the scraggly beards on those dark saronged forest folk; I shaved the thin hairs on the rice lovers chins….I shaved the worlds beards.  Cleanliness is unparalleled and I was trying to do my part.  You know the #1 breeding ground for insects, bacteria, and mites? It’s long, scraggly, stringy bloody beards and it’s a serious problem.  So this album coincides with my journey with songs like: The Width of a Mustache, Growing Hair Blues, Naked Face Rock, and my personal favorite She Shook Me Bald. These are rock ballads about literally saving the world from it’s own putrid, diseased hair.

David Bowie recounts that you two did interact in the early 60’s but denies anything beyond an acquaintance.  When was the last time you two encountered one another and what’s the full story?
Fuck, it’s been some years now.  He avoids me like I’m a rat during that one plague.  What’s it, Bubonic? Whatever, if I’m the damned rat, mate, then he’s the flea clinging to my hairs and spreading the disease. 

That’s right, we was creative acquaintances sharing childhood dreams with one another.  I never said we was friends or best mates - just that we knew each other and he stole and manifested my livelihood.  Last time I saw the Thin White Crook was at my local church, Our Lady of Sorrow, when I was home for the holidays in December of 1980.  He was there raising charity for some small organization or something; he wasn’t shaving beards though, that’s for sure, just raising money by appearing somewhere.  A half assed ploy, if ya ask me. 

After the sermon, Bowie hung around to speak with his local fans.  I waited in line to confront the prick after all these years of trying to track him down, and when I got up to the front, he looked me up and down said “Nice getup, now here’s a true fan,” and then he preceded to ask me who he should make his John Hancock out to.  I told him “It’s me, it’s fucking Ziggy, ya bloody faker, take your Hancock out and let’s measure.” So I whipped out my flaccid meat and placed it on the table. And he looked me up and down…I saw the recollection and fear in his eyes…and as his security locked arms and started to drag me away, I managed to blow a load of sawdust in his squinting eyes.  There was little more seen of Ziggy Stardust after that incident.  He went on to create other characters, and of course we all know the fame of his later career, but it appeared I had won.  Though, people continued to look at me as a copy rather than the original.  And I got a lot of shit for taking my pecker out in the Lords House, but nothing else got through to the dense celebrity he’d become.  Everyone thought I was the fake…. they thought I was Andy Warhol, when I was really the fucking soup can.
What’s next for Ziggy Sawdust? And do you still have hope for you and your career? Why not try a different image at this point in the game?
Are you for real, ya suit? Are you really asking me this?

At this point in the interview Mr. Stardust becomes enraged and gets in my face.  He lumbers over the table and stumbles towards me as if to swing.  Instead, he swipes up his rocks glass, takes a small sip, and launches his Canadian Club at my face, cubes and all.  He puts on that famous snarl, kicks over his chair, and storms out of the restaurant, but not before doing two things.  On his way out he throws his empty glass at my back and shouts across the restaurant: “We are all copies of something…you’re just a writer, you’ll never be Hemingway.”

And I suppose he is right; I’ll never be Hemingway, and he’ll never be David Bowie - the most we can hope is that we are the most original versions of those we are overshadowed by.  There’s one thing you can say about Mr. Sawdust; he is an angry rocker with unproven talents who may or may not be the inspiration for David Bowie’s, Ziggy Stardust.  At the very least, he is a colorful character that skirts around the spectrum of pop culture.  He so violently skirts around the skirt that is pop culture that we should all charge him with statutory rape for licking all of our innocence raw. Yet there’s something intriguing and dreadfully positive about a man who won’t quit.  Perhaps he plays with all of our morbid curiosities, as we wonder just who in our lives we’ve encountered and inspired to greatness.


Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Peter and Tim

Tim was 15 when he met the love of his life.

Peter was 33 when he met his.

They happened to be in the same tiny Huntsville diner, on the same gravel street, sitting at the same maple syrup covered table, both having an accidental conversation about the crispy, salty joys of bacon when love struck.

They didn’t arrive together, nor did either of them intend on sitting together. In fact the table that accommodated their fortuitous encounter was empty and unused for three whole days before they warmed its lonely seats. Table 11 at the local eatery was notoriously the worst table in the place; it was a staging slab for waiters to get their bearings before shuffling their piping hot dishes of pigs feet, or beef hash, or buttery grits to tables two, four, seven, nine, and everyone’s favorite: table five. 11 was a table with two wobbly leg and stains so thick they couldn’t be chiseled off with a razor blade. It was said to be made of layers upon layers of cheap impressionable balsa wood with only a thin pine top layer and a wax and shellac finish to disguise it’s shoddy craftsmanship. All the other tables were constructed from Ironwood taken from the most stubborn tree in the forest, the Ebony Tree. 11 was a table in desperate need of repair and a table only used on Sunday mornings after church when the influx of locals was at its most resplendent that it necessitated the use of a menial dining station. The waitresses would sometimes seat travelers and businessmen at the inferior table causing the locals to snicker amongst themselves because surely the wobbly, dirty, wood square promoted inferior conversation and an inferior meal as well. The table was so notorious at the diner in the bustling town that “table 11” became an expression, a local phrase slipped into everyday rambling which only the locals would understand. They would use it when talking business, such as: “hey don’t pull my leg and give me a number 11, when I am asking you the honest to God truth,” or “Charlie I ain’t going to the dance with you, why would I go with table 11 when I can go with the captain of the football team?” The table was an eyesore to say the least and surely not an appropriate place for such a serendipitous first encounter.

Tim happened upon the diner on that unseasonably warm fall day due to the intense post-football-practice-hunger of his inappropriately matched friends, Greg and Nicky Meadows - local star athletes, twin brothers, and class dunces. The boys matured much faster than Tim and often teased him about his lanky frame, soft cheeks, and flowing wheat colored hair. Tim didn’t mind though, he knew as other local teens knew, Greg and Nicky Meadows would stay in Huntsville their whole life, probably work on their fathers farm, have children much like themselves, and retire never having cared or lived up to their full potential. Alternatively, Tim would go to College and he would live in one of the big cities on the coast and he would continue to set goals for himself, constantly striving to be better as his potential would increase with his achievements. His ambition for himself was to mock the shelf life of a fine wine. Tim prided himself on his ability to focus and retain details others would overlook or simply find uninteresting. These were the precise skills he was currently using to excel into all AP classes at Grisson Virgil High School. This was a feat that Tim found particularly easy, and felt it could only bode well for his future endeavors. He never understood how he had maintained his friendship with the Meadows past their initial introduction at age two in the daycare center at Huntsville Memorial Hospital where their mothers worked the noon to midnight shift. As two year old Tim sat in a corner and put the finishing touches on a fire station built from outdated and worn Lincoln logs, the Meadow boys, in a roughhousing haze fueled by shot-gunning a 12-pack of Strawberry Kiwi Capri Sun’s, threw each other sidelong into Tim’s architecturally sound little building. To Tim’s chagrin they destroyed every log like oblivious, adrenaline fueled, toddler Godzillas. Tim was not one to hate or discriminate and the boys were no exception, he felt obliged to accept their sincerest apologies and indulge them as they insisted on using their Neanderthal-like little hands to re-construct that which they had obliterated.

This was the start of a relationship that was fueled by juxtaposition; Tim would paint a canvas of a peaceful stream and the Meadows would drown bugs in his oil paints. Tim would rehabilitate crippled animals he would find in the wild; the boys and their pump action bb gun were responsible for putting them there. Tim tried out for theater; the boys fell into football. Tim had never had a girlfriend; the boys had gone through nearly half the school, including two teacher aids during their 7th period gym class after being provoked by their football coach Mr. Fresco. Tim helped out at the Cedar Creek Home for the Aged, and the Meadows drove a few lucky octogenarians to senility with calls of “Old Bag,” or “Old Fart,” or “You’re more rickety than table 11.” Though for better or worse the three boys were bonded. The Meadows looked out for Tim and Tim told others of their often hidden soft side. He assured teachers, mail men, the local preacher, even the boys parents that they weren’t quite as cruel as they seemed. It was a friendship fueled by outsiders misunderstanding; nobody quite perceived them for who they really were. And on that specific Tuesday the Meadows and Tim entered the diner high off of 100 meter dashes, Redbulls and high school theatre respectively. Greg gave Tim a gentle yet annoying shove as they entered and Tim called him a freakish oaf, this was their relationship. The boys nodded to the day hostess Jenny and took their normal seat at the clean, pristine, and lucky table number 7; this had been their usual table since grade school only to be left for table 9 on particularly popular Sundays.

Peter went to Bluegrass diner every Tuesday to work on his writing, (usually fan fiction for defunct tv show Northern Exposure that he managed to get published in the local paper), but on this particular Tuesday he was meant to meet a client who never showed. Usually Peter met his clients on Thursday afternoons, but this high profile customer, (the mayor!), had requested a Tuesday meeting to accommodate his already scheduled Thursday bowling league. Peter would write on Thursday this week, he was nothing if not agreeable. He preferred to meet his clients at table five since it was closest to the restroom and a sensitive bladder was one of the many faults his father’s line of genealogy had blessed him with. Table five also overlooked a small oak tree in the front of the diner and was off the well-treaded path of the main aisle. It was quiet enough to hear his clients discuss their W-2 and the misplaced receipts from the money they donated to charity, but noticeable enough that service was prompt. Peter had misplaced the mayor’s number and decided, knowing full well that the mayor had a tendency to make people wait, that he would hold his table for 45 minutes before dismissing the meeting as a wash. He ordered coffee from his normal Tuesday waitress Tammy and sat nervously tapping his foot, this was his third cup of coffee today. He looked like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop in a room full of barefoot people; antsy to say the least.

After a good thirty minutes of waiting Peter decided his guest wasn’t going to show. He took out his notebook, asked Tammy for a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon, and was then perplexed with the question of what to eat. He thought of the other gift his stoic and emotionless father had blessed him with: high cholesterol, and he weighed rocketing blood pressure against the thought of chewing on wilted lettuce and shreds of carrots much like a frail rabbit. He’d been waiting long, he’d had oatmeal for breakfast that day, he’d taken his medicine already, his wife wasn’t here to monitor him; what the heck. He asked for two flapjacks, a pad of butter, two eggs over easy, and three pieces of crispy country bacon. He sat and salivated at the thought. As he begin to jot down musings on the joys of southern life two rambunctious hulks followed by a lanky and reserved teen entered the restaurant. They were seated two tables down from him in what he overheard very clearly was their normal spot. As he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to get much work done with thing 1 and thing 2 shouting from their perch, he wondered if there was a record in the Guinness book for fastest consumption of bacon and eggs. Peter made brief eye contact with the quiet boy and when it was returned he looked away immediately; if Peter was annoyed by his friends he surely didn’t want it to be obvious. He looked up again and the boy gave him a sympathetic nod that read “please don’t blame me for my dogs behavior.” Peter smiled and looked back down at his notebook, he decided not to judge this young man by the company he kept.

Of course society frowned on the mere interaction let alone a romantic love between an adolescent boy and a mature man of no relation, but fate is fickle and works in devious ways. It didn’t happen like you’d think, there were no predatory advances from Peter. In fact Peter was a perfect gentleman. He was the town treasurer for four consecutive terms. Paul Bishop challenged him once in the fall of ’07 preparing himself for a long, heated, turbulent, debate only to be swept by an 85% margin. Peter was the kind of guy who would mow his neighbors lawn because he already had the Craftsman out. He was the kind of guy who would let you have the parking spot at the grocery store if both your cars happened upon it at the same time. He was not a pushover, just a generous kind man who didn’t see the point in rushing through life. This was exactly the sort of thing his wife Nancy had at first loved about him but eventually came to loathe over the course of their ten years together. She wondered why Peter never got around to painting the family room like his brother did for his wife. She wondered why he had worked for the same accountant firm since she’d met him and never even entertained the thought of going off on his own. She even wondered why their routine in bed had become so routine she was able to make full detailed mental lists as to where she wanted to send their three year old daughter to preschool. She couldn’t find particular fault with Peter; he was a good father, a good provider, and a generous man, but she had stopped respecting him. This one thought ate at Nancy all day long and the more Peter tried to correct himself, to be bolder or more brash, the less Nancy cared about making their relationship work. As the situation escalated Peter began to enjoy his time in the office, at the diner, or alone time with his daughter more and more. Nancy was someone he still loved but no longer understood. They had met at Ohio State their sophomore year of college and hit it off instantly. Coming from similar backgrounds and both having an interest in the arts, (a major they both switched out of their junior year), their attraction was undeniable. College was a time to reinvent oneself. Little did Peter know that back home in Indiana Nancy was known as the “Harlot of Hebron,” and little did Nancy know that back in Kentucky, Peter was known as “The Dork of Danville.” He was a quiet boy who floated through life with books as entertainment, a mother who was a mute, and a father that never took an interest in him. Peter only now started to question whether people could be right for one another for allotted amounts of time. Were there expiration dates on relationships? This was a thought he often tried to work through in his notebook during the long hours he spent away from his home. No conclusion had been reached yet.

Tim couldn’t help but feel sorry for the clean-cut, bookish, man that sat two tables away from him and the Meadows. He knew how off-putting their behavior often seemed, and he felt horrible every time they so obviously disturbed someone. He tried to send looks of apology his way, and received shy glances back that said this strange man understood he couldn’t leash his dining partners. It only occurred to Tim after he had ordered an orange soda and a turkey club, and after he and his buddies were munching on fried okra that the man who kept giving him sidelong glances was none other than Peter Tearney, the town treasurer. He’d seen him at town hall meetings when Professor Grant offered extra credit for his AP American History class to attend. He’d seen his face plastered on yard signs when he was up for re-election. One wouldn’t go so far as to call him a town celebrity, but he was slowly making his way up the D-list.

Peter couldn’t understand what was taking his food so long. All diners specialized in breakfast, he hadn’t asked for turkey potpie, or chicken Marsala, or even Blue Grass’s special Pineapple Spam burger. This was bacon, eggs, and pancakes, it was like warming up a pop tart for any short order cook. Nonetheless his stomach continued to grumble. The only thing distracting him from his hunger was the game of “look and look down” he was playing with the young man two tables from him. He felt as if they were on the same level, like if his two giant counterparts weren’t there they would be sharing an intellectual conversation about foreign policy. Sure their conversation may start casual with a simple how’s the weather but they would instantly share a rapport that would lead them to commenting on the immense cumulonimbus cloud structures that had struck their town as of recent. The same clouds that brought intense rain and thunder which threatened to flood through the streets wiping out the small community forcing them to start from scratch like a modern day Noah’s Ark in a town-wide deluge. But his hunger consumed him, so he decided, even though it wasn’t in his character, he would take action. He looked for Tammy’s familiar crooked smile and peroxide blonde pixie cut, he even tried to wave one of the newer waitresses over. No success. They must literally be strangling a fresh pig for him he playfully thought to himself. Only upon a thorough gander around the diner did he spot two lone plates sitting on the crooked staging slab that was table 11. He put on his glasses and stood up to get a better look. Sure enough a plate with two pancakes, crispy bacon, and two large farm fresh eggs stared back at him like two giant sunny nipples.

Where the hell was Tim’s food? The twins had already consumed their massive, bloody, bacon blue-cheese burgers and moved on to rhubarb pie, but he hadn’t even received his meal. He sat there patiently as the twins played bloody knuckles in between bites of fruit and cream. This had been going on for some time and Greg’s knuckle had already popped releasing a flap of thin skin that hung like the plastic peel on the top of a cup of yogurt. Nicky’s knuckles had already bled over and started to scab but they continued to pound at each other like there was a pot of gold in the center of both of their palms. Tim looked around the diner, hoping to get someone’s attention. He glanced over to the man he now recognized as the town treasurer but he was no longer there. His notebook and briefcase were still propped open on his table, but where was he? Tim stood up to try and track down their waitress; he had never waited this long for a sandwich before. He walked towards the kitchen and saw Peter sitting at table 11; nobody sits at that table. Across from his plate of eggs was a perfect, fresh looking turkey club next to a heaping pile of steak fries.

“Is this yours?” Peter inquisitively asked. If his food had been left in the trenches perhaps this young mans had as well.

“Yea, I think it is, just left here huh?” Tim picked up a fry and eagerly crunched on it.

“Guess they just forgot to run it, this tables practically invisible to them sometimes.” Peter added.

“Mind if I sit,” Tim forwardly asked “I don’t want to get blood in my food.” They both laughed as they looked at the twins smashing their fists together and wincing with pain. Tim sat, and Peter settled into the booth further.

“Name’s Tim,” he confidently pronounced.

“Pleasure, I’m Peter,” was the retort. But Tim knew, he’d seen his face plastered all over town throughout his childhood.

Perhaps they would discuss clouds today; maybe they’d discuss a foreign conflict. Who knows what fate had in store for a love between a 33 year old man and a 15 year old boy. Maybe theirs was a relationship with an expiration set at 30 minutes, or maybe it would never expire quite like the always-fresh Twinkie. Either way both men were happy to speak to someone with something to say, to sit with someone who wanted to learn, and to eat across from someone who wasn’t shouting obscenities and beef patty into their face. The connection between them was evident and maybe people stared, or maybe nobody looked at them at all. Perhaps their meal was held at a dining station that was quite like a black hole sucking the small towns dirty secrets into it. As Tim picked at the bacon in his sandwich and watched Peter pour ketchup on his eggs he felt obliged to say, “So this is table 11 huh? It’s not so bad.”