A long trail of trash and beer cans littered the front yard and led up the front steps of my house. The porch light left on in broad daylight. Glittery bits of glass from a broken bottle lay embedded in the snow around the rose bush and stuck like tiny shards in the conifer shrubs. The snow-laden porch railings on either side had been converted into stand-up ashtrays with discarded butts sticking out like soggy discolored quills. I was ready to blow before I stomped up to the door and kicked it open to behold two good for nothings playing a video game on the couch. The little monstrosities of impertinence even had the gall to greet me with glee. Both standing there all glassy-eyed and blinking in the bright morning light. As if welcoming me back home at the expected time.

“Top of the morning to you—look who it is, Billy!” Lefty said. To add insult to injury he was wearing my robe.

“Come on in,” said Billy, now rifling through my refrigerator like a greedy rat picking through garbage.

“Thank you for inviting me into my house.” I sneered. “Can I cook you breakfast as well?”

“Nah man, I’m already out. Appreciate it though!” He replied slapping my shoulder as he passed me to the living room. A gallon jug of milk in one hand and a block of cheese in the other.

Lefty worked the corners of his big mouth to keep from smiling. Still unsure exactly what mood I was in. “You asked for a house sitter, right?”

“What a job you did. And in my robe too. Move over. It’s been a long trip.”

Lefty hopped out of my usual seat and stripped off the robe. Tossing it onto the ground.

“I knew it! Here, I just ground this up for you.” He handed me his spliff card, spilling half of it in his haste.

“Will ya take a look around at this dump. And is the other couch broken?”

“Yeah, about that, you really missed out the other night. Billy decided to invite some of his female friends over…”

“Fuck off. That wasn’t us.” Billy jumped to his own defense.

“And then Niko’s drunken antics last night, you know how he gets. You’re lucky we were even around.”

I cut Lefty off short— “What favors have you done exactly? Or am I supposed to thank you for breaking my furniture and leaving a goddamned mess?”

“I was going to clean, promise. If only someone called beforehand to inform me when they’d be back it would’ve been done by now. I could’ve brought a bottle to boot for the damages.”

“So you do assume some blame. Don’t bother helping now. No amount of repair can fix this shit hole.”

“An easy fix, really. And I already know what I need from the hardware store. One two by four, a couple of screws—we’ll come first thing after tailgating, right Billy?”

“What now?” He looked up from his phone.

“Please,” I started to plead. “Leave me be. I can’t handle having company over right now.”

I sank onto the couch deeper than ever, defeated.

“But I just ground up the last of my sack,” said Billy.

“Get out.”

“What about my flask?”

“Now!” I proceeded to bark at them and their lukewarm reception. My mouth dripping with foamy pearls of spit as I gnashed white canines at the absent-minded housekeepers.

“Pshh, no need telling us twice. Heard ya loud and clear. Let’s go guys.” Lefty ended crossly, motioning towards Billy who blinked twice, puzzled, before stumbling out with him.

The door slamming shut behind them was the best homecoming I could have asked for as I recovered breath from my weeklong stranglehold.

Alone. Stuck with only my past regrets.

To think I had returned from all my travels without a single change or improvement. If only I would’ve put it all out there for the world to see…

I plugged my cellphone into the wall charger and reached for the bong, the couch groaning under my weight, until remembering there wasn’t the smallest leftover crumb in my stash. I unscrewed the grinder’s kief trap. Empty.

And the trip kept giving.

That was the problem with inviting an infestation into your home. It only took a few days left unchecked before the pests had gotten into everything. The normally see-through bong water was crawling. Its water so brown and disgusting the glass beaker appeared acrylic. If ever there was a penance for such an egregious crime, smoking the contents of Lefty’s spliff card would be it.

I loaded the bowl piece only to discover there wasn’t a single shred of tobacco in the house. The one scenario worse than having nothing to smoke at all so I grabbed the car keys off the dresser and made the thirty-second trip down the street. Swearing off my ravenous pot use, excessive customary drinking, insensitive friends who took full advantage—any general hindrance or obstacle in my life, in four-letter words the whole way to the gas station on the corner. Flying into a blind rage at the tiniest inconvenience like a red stoplight which furthered my derangement.

I approached the clerk at the counter with my wallet already opened.

“No ID, I remember you.” She said in stark contrast to the usual treatment I received from her neurotic husband. He could be seen watching the monitor screens in the back office as she picked the tobacco pouch from the shelf.

Back home the bong hit stabbed at my lungs as I ripped the bowl with a steady, rumbling hiss.

It ended up being one of those disgusting hits that not only tasted bad but went down the wrong pipe. Despite choking on harsh, bulging wisps of smoke I could relax. This light-headed stupor was enough to catapult me into sudden bliss. Practice wasn’t for a couple days. Allowing some recovery before the six-day on-snow training schedule, Tuesday through Sunday. Off-days would be my only salvation and even that sanctity got threatened by the persistent buzzing from my cellphone. Likely desperate clients sick of calling their backup hooks or having to resin hit their pipes.

Heady with smoke and vision fuzzy, my many shortcomings to date were brought to the surface as I plummeted into a deep, downward spiral. Buried far below, stirred the monstrous, multi-tentacled question of whether I had made the right decision. Below that lurked my uneasy anticipation for the coming season, lingering like a tireless phantom inhabiting every thought.

I had to rest for now in hopes I could recover from the repercussions still to come. Besides, this was my down time. Which I shouldn’t feel guilty for spending however I pleased. Right?

Except one glance at the state of the house compelled me to fetch the bottle of all-purpose cleaner from under the kitchen sink cabinet. It was near unrecognizable from my view within the wreckage. White powder covered practically every surface which sure wasn’t a week’s worth of collected dust. Even the untouched coffee in the coffee pot had green discs of mold floating on its surface. Used dip cups, beer cans, and soda bottles, some of them tipped on their sides with their fluids spilt out, and countless empty cigarette packs piled up on the coffee table which I used one arm to clear. I sprayed it down with cleaner and wiped it over and over until having lifted a week’s-worth of hardened grime. Using practically an entire roll of paper towels which never stopped turning black as I scrubbed tirelessly to remove the stains.

After that I emptied out the ashes from the ashtray. Scrubbing the crustier bits along the perimeter of the coffee table while using the rest of the paper towel roll to lift the moldy stench of old bong water from the carpet before I could vacuum it.

The living room got put back together, cushion by cushion. I juggled stacks of used shot glasses and dirty plates to the kitchen where I buried myself in mounds of porcelain plates and glassware for nearly an hour handwashing each dish by scrubbing the caked-on food with a crusty, old sponge until leaving the dish rack crammed full with dishes to dry. After that I moved onto the bathroom. The smallest room but the worst to clean by far. Despite living on my own I hosted enough company to account for the filth of several roommates. The bedroom however, was quickly made spotless by shoving armfuls of laundry into large black garbage bags to be washed along with my robe.

I took advantage of the clear countertop in the kitchen by rinsing out the swamp water from the bong. I cleaned it with rubbing alcohol and table salt along with the bowl piece and downstem until it sparkled like brand new.

I lifted up the bong to reward this hard work. The fruits of my labor still strewn around me.

I might’ve been starting anew, but the dirtiness remained. Like that tiny black speck below the ice catcher which was inaccessible to any brush. Such efforts were merely superficial with plenty more to be done from scrubbing the grease-splattered stovetop and walls to cleaning the thick layer of dust topping the doorframes and ceiling fan blades.

Throughout all of this my cellphone incessantly rang. Half-off the edge of the coffee table. Amidst the steady stream I was greeted with a text that no high could match. R u still up?

Alas! An odyssey of pain and suffering ended almost too abruptly with Sophia’s message being in response to a drunken late-night call I didn’t remember making. So what if I had tried reaching out? With more pressing concerns placed on the backburner I straightened upright after noticing the time of her reply.

What was she up to at four in the morning? I further mused, with a peculiar admixture of censure and surprise. It was in that fateful moment I knew I’d have to pick up.

Here’s to new beginnings committed by the same follies of the past. Having already sunken far enough to shift dirt like any lowly worm.

Before deciding to spend the remainder of what I had on a cheap plastic bottle I appealed to Thorny first to pick up. Going back on all that I said last week.

Within minutes he was already on his way. But knowing him, he had a couple other stops. There was a good and bad side in having such privileges with your dealer. In return, he sometimes needed a place to operate from for the better part of the day. Not a bad trade-off considering the goods got personally delivered to me.

Reupping covered, I sent a friendly message to let the usual clients know I was back in business.

The last order of business was a quick visit to the neighborhood liquor store in Sugar House.

Even the sky didn’t know what to do with itself. Remaining muddled with the endless passing of misshapen clouds. Not even halfway there I received my first phone call— “What you getting into today?”

It was a formality for Billy to ask considering Lefty could be heard yammering away in the background.

My response was no warm welcome: “Nothing really.”

“C’mon. It’s game day. Don’t act like you got nothing better to do.”

Last thing I wanted was to jinx the occasion and muck it up further with ill-casted lots. Although, I could practically see their smugness vanish once Sophia arrived and they had to leave.

“I’m expecting someone.”

“Ooh say no more, playboy,” said Billy, wrapping up with the biggest lie of all: “Only for a little while. We’d hate to overstay our welcome.”

“If you say so.”

Niko called next. He must’ve sensed I was en route to pick up booze. I took the call despite his contribution to the abuse of my home and property. Giving him a free pass, even if by merit of being absent this morning.

“What’s up, Niko?”

“Same shit. Different toilet.” He spat. Sounding slightly exasperated as if he were managing several tasks at once.

“No work?”

“There’s always work to do. If not at the restaurant, then something around the house or yard. My dad sees to that. But I switched days off with my brother.”

“I’m getting to the L store now. Sophia and Chase wanted to watch the game. Down?”

“On my way.”

Niko would never miss an opportunity for heavy drinking. Even if it meant driving through a hellish storm.

The formerly subdued sky from earlier this morning rippled in chalky currents that broke up the sky into billowing, black patches. Ravaged by the harsh and unforgiving wind. A pale gray cloud could be seen forming over the city, becoming swollen with the foreboding atmosphere. I had to move fast. But what I hoped to be a quick in and out process became a manic frenzy requiring two laps around the lot to find available parking—the mad dash of every heathen getting their fix before the storm as if it were the liquor store’s closing minutes.

One foot out the door I was nearly flattened if not for the warning beep of a car horn. My cellphone continued to buzz in my jacket pocket along the way. The burden of being available for everyone but myself pressed upon me with a cruel vengeance.

I shuffled past the pudgy cop who glared at everyone upon entry and replied to each person the same as the last. Be there in 30

Inside the festering state-owned establishment was worse than ever. Checkout lines extended down the aisles and wrapped around the wine section ending somewhere between Argentina and Tuscany. The sheer number of needing mouths without a bottle to suck on was quite sobering. Except I was more instilled with the irrational fear the waterhole would dry out.

I made straight for the whiskey section in back where I reached slightly higher than usual but stopping just short of an imported bottle of the Irish persuasion.

Back outside, a ceaseless explosion of white confetti fell from the sky.

Bringing with it the first flurry to start the count down until the dreaded “big one”. The storm which would pummel this valley and leave it out of commission for days on end.

Once safely encapsulated in my tin can cockpit, I navigated the near-blinding flurry of snowflakes which flew past my windshield as if traveling at hyper speed to Main Street when a bent figure appeared right before me, causing me to slam on the brakes.

The old man! Dressed in shabby rags like a long, flowing black robe with a beard of icicles and a slow calculated step, he advanced slowly down the snow-packed street with tennis balls on the legs of his walker. His absence was no surprise given the long duration and harshness of winter. The very sight of him ambling around warmed me over. One simply never knew if this would be his last lap around the block.

But all the relief of knowing he was still around and pushing through the worst weather we’ve seen in years got undercut by the guilt of complaining about my own perceived pain and misery. It was a wake-up call to appreciate each and every day. Even despite the parked cars in front of my house and dark figures wearing cuffed beanies and smoking cigarettes on the porch.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I greeted them on my way up the porch steps.

“We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we, Riley?” Thorny, wearing a red cap and red gloves with an oversized pack held over his shoulder, elbowed his partner. Riley grinned. The whites of his eyes entirely bloodshot. Pupils dilated.

I grappled with my key ring as I passed them both. Nearly toppling over Niko’s wiry frame sitting Indian-style against one of the brick columns. His haggard chin rested upon his fist where a pulsing network of veins, purple and thick, ran weblike across each forearm.

“Any word from the girls?” He asked right away.

“Not yet.”

Niko nodded back. Shrouded in smoke. The whiskey bottle I held felt emptier already.

“I wasn’t planning on picking up,” I began to explain myself as we entered the house.

“I know you weren’t.” Thorny replied.

“I didn’t even think I’d be smoking anymore.”

“Yet here we are,” said Thorny.

“Same song and dance,” said Riley. His face broke into a multicolored smile. Out of which flashed a stained brown front tooth. What he lovingly referred to as his resin tooth.

“Also, I was hoping for a tiny favor.”

“On the front, I presume?”

I stared at my feet. Ashamed.

“Yes, please.” I remained flushed, unable hide the shame of not having a cent to offer him for restocking my supply. Once again. Thorny peered back at me. The blue beady eyes of his muskrat face magnified by thick spectacles.

“I’m getting pretty good at this, aren’t I, Riley?”

Riley kept smiling. His lizard eyes slowly glazing over, congealing.

“Except you know I’m good for it,” I said.

“I’ve heard that one as well.”

“You know I have a solid clientele base and will always have the money. It’s a matter of when, really. And who knows, it might be my last hurrah before leaving this life of degeneracy behind for good.” I half-joked, half-hoped it to be true.

“Doubtful. Judging from your aura, faint as it is, I foresee a dark nimbus on your horizon. Unless, of course, you can find a middle way…” Thorny’s words trailed off.

“I haven’t got much faith to tell the truth.”

“And in every truth, something’s concealed.”

“This time it’s different,” I said. Almost as if trying to convince myself.

“But first you need some ganja.” He started filling in the gaps.

“No sense cutting off my supply overnight.”

“Oh, I understand,” Thorny offloaded his pack onto the floor. The skunky smell hit me in the face as soon as he unzipped it to reveal a cornucopia of fuzzy nugs with long red-orange hairs in large plastic sacks. “Another cutie pie, I presume?”

“Yes. A quarter-pound should do.”

“Which do you prefer? Sativa or indica?”

“Make it half of each.”

I eyed the stash enviously as he began clumsily scooping nugs into the plastic cup which he placed onto his digital scale. Some of them missed the cup and fell onto the floor. But he didn’t seem to mind. Dealing in so much weight a single nug for him didn’t account to much compared to the total burnouts I knew who picked at the carpet fibers when their sacks ran out.

He handed over four ounces of leafy green goodness and my entire disposition turned to that of a giddy schoolboy.

“I must be out my mind.”

“A change of heart let’s say. There’s also dab for sale. We extract it ourselves from full ounces of flower and purge the impurities with a vacuum.”

Expecting him to pull out a wrapped-up piece of brown parchment paper, he showed me a round silicon container instead which was full of an amber wax-like material.

“How much?”

“Fifty a gram. Except you’ll need to get yourself one of these.” He proceeded to pull out his dab rig which looked more or less like a fancy bubbler. Except instead of having a bowl piece there was a glass needle that Riley began to heat up with his butane torch until becoming red hot.

“Sounds like quite an investment to get high. Maybe next time.”

Thorny removed the flame and used his dab tool to drip a fat glob onto the glass needle as he started to inhale.

“As you wish. We’ve gotta be in and out like a trout today. We’re looking for a spot to rent.”

“No more conducting business out of your mother’s basement?”

“Nope. It’ll be Riley and myself. Just like the old days.”

I thought back to high school and the old shed where Thorny and Riley used to smoke out of a handmade smoking device called a third lung. Made from cutting the bottom off a plastic bottle and taping a plastic bag to it. The bottlecap fashioned into a bowl piece using a wad of tin foil shaped by hand.

“Tell him what we talked about,” said Riley, still smiling.

“That’s right. You’ll have a new contact from now on. I’ll send you the number to call.”

“Who is it?”

“Riley’s brother.”

“Which one?”

“Little brother. The plan is to split operations so we only handle the big deals.”

“That might be for the best.”

“Unless you wanted to pick up more weight?”

“I’ll have to mull it over. Wanna chief?”

Our automatic impulse was to both reach for the bong at the same time.

“Dealers first.” I reclined in my seat.

“You’re too kind.”

“And I owe you eight-hundred dollars. But we can chalk it up to kindness.”

Thorny packed a leafy bowl and capped it with brown tobacco flakes. Not a speck of green could be seen. And leaning like a wizard with his pipe, his cap pulled over his head, he smoked his bowl.

With a poof he was gone. Leaving behind wisps of smoke where they sat only moments before.

It almost didn’t feel like I was in the negative having a full jar again. Niko and I took our first shot of many. Then he took another.

“Can I get a dime on the front?”

His question cut right through my stupor. I looked at him straight as if seeing clearly for the first time. He was dressed in his best lounge attire. An otherwise plain hoodie with ‘Ratchet’ in cursive print across the chest. His sweatpants covered with a colorful print pattern which could be found on your grandmother’s drapes. The bottleneck protruded from his clenched sausage-link fingers as he manhandled the brownbag. Funny how grating it was to be asked the same favor which funded this entire operation.

Like usual, I conceded to his request.

“Thanks. At least until I get this script of Adderall from Lefty.”

“Ah, legal meth. Lefty is coming over?”

“It’s only amphetamine. But yeah. He’s leaving the tailgate with Billy and I told him I was on the way if that’s chill.”

“I wasn’t planning on having many people over today.” I said, omitting this morning’s fiasco entirely.

He must’ve picked up on my air of indifference and backpedaled.

“We can do the deal elsewhere. If you want.”

“No matter now. I need you with me and I hear somebody’s heavy trod on the steps already.”

Despite the desire to be left alone an even stronger force had lighted upon the porch, and as scheduled, two voices conversed loudly, in argument no doubt, while exchanging thick puffs of cigarette smoke.

Back-to-back spliff bowls had me too glued to rise and I offered hardly more than a grunt to the rattling duo as they entered the living room.

I beheld their shivering figures. Bundled up to their ruddy-faces and bringing with them a baleful wind that whipped through the open door to howl at my threshold.

Billy wore a slate gray peacoat with six glossy buttons. A woolen scarf, charcoal-colored, and with fringed ends, wrapped around his neck. He rambled incoherently to himself in the doorway while Lefty slipped from one drama mask to the other, storming by with the grace of a tempest battered shipwreck. Sullen, dejected, his eyes watery and cheeks reddened from excessive drink and the cold. First thing he did was openly declare being unwelcome here: “I know I’m not allowed under this roof. I only came to do this one favor for Niko. He’s waited long enough already. Then I’m gone. It’s been a hectic day since we last spoke and as you know there’s no other place I can go. So here you are, Niko. My apologies for the delay. The script should be filled same time next month. Now with that out of the way, I take my leave. Or after a bong hit, maybe. If you’ll allow it. I’ll grind up and be gone. Exactly how you wanted.”

I stayed silent. Having seen this routine one too many times I wasn’t letting him guilt trip me. Amused nonetheless, I allowed him to load and smoke his bowl and meander back towards the front door, mumbling under his breath as he froze with his hand on the knob before I reneged.

“You can stay I suppose,” I said.

“Bup bup bup,” he contested. The final bit to his act. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on whatever you’ve got going on. No, no, I’ve been made well aware that I’ve overstepped my bounds as of late and wouldn’t dare doing so again.”

“Sit your ass down already and let’s smoke a bowl.” I quickly grew tired of the thespian’s played out performance. “I still owe you for watching the house.”

“You sure?” He said, his hand still gripping the doorknob. “And that oughta be worth more than one bowl, might I add.”

He let it go at last. The door closing shut with a dull thud behind him.

“Also, if it’s any consolation I was planning to clean up the place.”

“Hardly.”

“How so?”

“It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

“But you never told me when you’d be back!”

“Here we go again. So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

“In a way, yeah. If you think about it.”

“Now that’s pushing it. Even for you.”

Lefty lay splayed out on the couch. Right at home. “Feel free to help yourselves from this twelve-pack of imported gingers I lifted from someone’s tailgate.”

Forgiven but not forgotten, he at least had the decency to bring a peace offering.

“Gimme one of those,” Niko swiped the one from his hand. “I’ve gotta catch up.”

“That you do. Would you mind if I take some mixed amphetamine salts to wake up? The prescription is in my name, after all.”

“If you must.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d you get them anyway?” I asked as Lefty gleefully popped the equivalent of legal meth and swallowed without a swig of water.

“I made an appointment with a doctor and told them I had ADHD. Something which I proved after taking a series of tests. Now I get a bottle of twenty-milligram pills every month.”

“Except last batch were extended-release capsules.”

“Yeah, I know, Niko. I done fucked up this time. I told you I’ll switch from the generics back to the XRs.”

“Since when were you ADHD, Lefty?” I asked with half-curiosity and half-concern.

“While you were gone last week. Clinically diagnosed after a single visit.”

“Yeah, but are you really? Or just making a mockery of the system for a script in your name?”

“Meh, I do have a tendency to mix up my sentences, I forget the word for it, but as long as the doctor agrees this bottle stays filled.”

“And you sold them all to Niko.”

“I’ll refill the script in a couple weeks. No problem.”

The first person arrived to pick up which brought about an end to this unsettling exchange. My weeklong hiatus was felt by the whole hive who, with their keen senses prickling and antennae twitching, had already started upon the swarming.

It was only then that I finally returned to Sophia’s message and sent her my response.

So what’s the game plan?

Twenty minutes… thirty minutes… an hour flew on by… nothing still! And as the afternoon wore on my chances were shortened further.

Anxious, I mitigated the constant shuffle of clients by directing them back out the door once their sacks had been doled out.

I felt harsh wind. Inside and out. There used to be a comfort in distractions from impending storms, like listening to soft music, or reading a good book. But the cold permeated even with the furnace running so I cranked up the thermostat higher. Sheltering myself from this wintry afternoon. The rumbling furnace had an almost domestic quality to it as I dragged two ice block feet into the kitchen for more shot glasses. Within the hour I was out of the hole again. Pick up after pick up. Yet the constant flow couldn’t suppress the hope welling in my breast at every knock that it could be the girls loudly tromping on the doorstep, layered up in their heavy jackets. But no matter how passionately I sought this outcome it never awaited me on the other side.

I was slowly losing faith. Still, I was resolved. Sticking to what we agreed upon by seeing it through to the bitter end. Always on the hunt for a stronger high. It would take more than early frost or polar wind to spoil this perfectly stormy day for waiting in agony for that which never came.

The house continued heating up. The furnace roaring.

Half a bottle down and I could only shake my head whenever Niko’s gaze met mine. His altered disposition informed me more about the bleak prospects than I was willing to admit. Overwhelming doubt crashed over me in white-crested waves. Passing time with nothing to do, I could see my impending doom already darkening the far horizon.

I downed another shot. Then poured out three more. Distributing them so as to be hands free for a follow up bowl when Lefty, to everyone’s shock and surprise, waved it off.

“I’m abstaining from hard liquor today.” He began, pausing for further inquiry. But no one was listening. “Ahem. Know why, Billy?”

“No, why?”

“That’s what I said. Pass me the bingo bango and I’ll tell you.”

“Bingo bango?” Billy replied, perplexed.

“Bongo.”

Billy merely rolled his eyes and handed him the bong. Letting his usual opposition to Lefty’s antics slide without a rebuff or public scolding. For once they were acting surprisingly agreeable towards one another. Even while one constantly irritated the other. Perhaps some last vestige of change remained possible for this immutable rock we inhabit.

“So I went on a couple day bender earlier this week and accidently let Bob out,” he began. Prone to telling stories as he loaded his bowls, Lefty was known to camp on them until all the way through—and I was caught on the front end of one!

“You know Bob, right guys?”

“Who?” Billy and Niko looked at him over their shots with equal confusion.

“You do. Even if you don’t. He’s your best friend in a pinch. Let’s just say you’ve all partied with him many a times,” Lefty paused to ensure we were equally puzzled before caring to elaborate on details I couldn’t feign the slightest interest in.

“Who the hell is Bob?” I attempted to speed the story up.

“Why, good question. You know, Bob. B.O.B. Black Out Bellows. My alter ego for those rare occasions when I blackout.”

“How do we know we’re not talking to Bob now?”

“Because I’m no more than browned out at the moment. It’s that drunk where base motives are propelled somewhere between pleasure and depravity, which Billy should know about.”

“I can help you black out if you’d like?”

Lefty brought the bong to his lips­. He paused: “But wait—there’s more!”

“Which we’re fine without,” I had to interject. “Want to hit that already?”

But such requests were in vain as he started back up again.

“No wonder I was stuck in bed all yesterday afternoon after binge drinking at a company party—God do those good ol’ boys like to drink. We went through three, no, four cases of beer I think so that’s not bad. But the best part was getting to outdrink my boss under the table on his own dime! When I awoke it was to make a beeline for the bathroom where I puked ungodly amounts of bloody bile. Hmm, I thought­, that doesn’t seem right, so after a visit to the doctor’s it turns out I opened up a fresh ulcer.”

“It’s almost as if you say that with pride.”

“You know what, I kind of do!”

“Are you taking the shot, or not?” Niko asked, growing more impatient, if not hostile.

“I’ll stick to my ginger beer,” he said, hitting the bong at last.

Billy and Niko clinked their shot glasses together then tapped the bottoms on the coffee table before shooting them.

With an exhalation of smoke, Lefty added: “Can I pour my beer out into a glass? There’s nothing more heavenly than a freshly poured brew.”

“Go for it.” I jumped to reclaim the bong.

“Any takers? Billy?”

“I drink real lagers. Not that pussy shit.”

Lefty could be heard trailing off into the kitchen: “Which reminds me to never bring you lot around once I’m in office.”

“If you ever find yourself on the ballot, Lefty, I’ll be president-elect.”

“Remember the president doesn’t always win the popular vote.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the electoral college.” Billy scoffed before leaning over to ask me for a dime sack.

“Sure,” I said. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

Billy’s eyes flashed with the crackle of a snapping fire.

“I’ll get cash back when I hit the gas station for my iced tea.”

“Is that code for some time next week?”

“Or as soon as I got it.”

I lifted my shot glass. Niko downed Lefty’s neglected shot for him.

“Mock me all you want, however, the last I checked I’m the only poli sci major in the room,” Lefty started where he left off as he reentered the room: “But looks only get you so far in life—look at me? I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in the state because I possess a little thing called charm.”

“More like lack thereof,” murmured Billy aside.

“It’s called knowing how to serve people what they want.”

“Yeah,” Billy drawled back, “with nice, steamy piles of bullshit straight from the sycophant’s handbook.”

“Whatever it takes! Like a master sommelier dealing in important details and fine tastes.”

“That sure explains the little brown smudge on your nose.”

“Fuck off. It’s not my fault that it boils down to who you know in life, and I’ve got connections, believe me—whoopsie daisy,” he nearly dropped his beer, then checked to see if I was watching. “Don’t worry, I got it. I must’ve been distracted by the stubble on your chinny chin chin. Where’d that come from?”

“Doc calls it puberty. And its symptoms are chronic.” I humored him. The reality was that I hadn’t shaved in weeks.

“‘Bout time you caught up!”

“Don’t let the age fool you in appearing wiser.”

“How could I? I’ll need another dime, by the way.”

“Of course. Where would I be without all of your daily dimes of support?”

“Wasn’t your little girly friend supposed to be coming over?”

I shut my mouth after that.

Like clockwork, Billy, quick to bait the easily hooked, cycled topics to make some new point for him to argue. But the previous question was enough to make blood boil. For once, Lefty drove a hard point. I’ve made no attempt to correct any of my self-destructing habits or many vexed relationships. Which prompted me to announce another round of shots.

The drunken tirades ensued. I cracked open one of Lefty’s beers while the rest spoke loudly over each other.

At last, Billy cut through the suspended bong smoke. “Ay, let’s smoke a ciggy before the game starts.”

Niko stood at once.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I’ma need to bum one though.”

“Of course, you do. How am I not surprised?”

“Shut it, Lefty. Or I’m only bumming from your pack.”

“Like it’s been all morning? But no worries. I’ve smoked one pack already and plan to do the same with this second.”

Out on the porch. The dead silence outside was a welcome change in which I was consoled by two faithful companions. Bitter frost and icy cold. My every exhale heavy and black beneath a spiky row of icicles.

Heavy snowfall muffled every sound on the streets. Deafening all sounds of life.

An eerie sense of calm accompanied us as we blew smoke and griped endlessly. Lefty and Billy were back at each other’s throats yet again over something forgettable that happened at the tailgate earlier. Both of them red-faced and snarling, red-faced from their respective corners over one of those ‘you had to be there’ type scenarios which was of little to no import. It never was. Entertaining a couple lines of their banter only further proved their points were opposite regardless of what they argued about and when seemingly all had been settled one added comment brought the whole discussion full circle again. The logical alternative to their nonsense was staying outside it. Otherwise, risk sacrificing time to a dizzying, anti-climactic end. One of several reasons why these endless nights melded into one.

All I could think was that the girls could’ve said they had other plans, or didn’t want to see us again. Which was equally fine. But to leave us hanging, holed in by winter’s offering, was the cruelest punishment imaginable.

As soon as we got blown back inside, I was caving all over again and sent Sophia a follow up message to the one she still hadn’t answered to. Fearing I’d been dragged down into bitter defeat before any battle was fought.

“Let’s switch to the game already,” Billy barked at Lefty.

“On it,” Lefty said, practically pressed up against the TV screen. The TV remote in hand as he switched through the channels. Everyone crowded around for a good spot to watch from. Giving no mind to their blatant disregard of my living space.

“Think about it. We could be cheering there in person right now and supporting our school,” Lefty lamented, turning my direction. “We were gonna invite you to come tailgating this morning until you huffed and puffed and all but blew the house away.”

My eyes widened at the terrible prospects of this notion.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Everyone’s there, by the way. And here we are, alone at your house. Like always.”

“I’m hardly alone,” I tried focusing on the TV as stocky football players in helmets and shoulder pads entered the stadium. Red and blue dots which blew onto the snowy field with referees in black and white stripes running to keep up behind them.

My disdain for college sports was simple. I never rallied behind the home team like a good fan and never would. But it now provided the perfect excuse to put off any of my actual ambitions as gathering winds from opposing directions whipped the shutters and battered the door.

I turned more frigid at Lefty’s discovery of an old chess set. Forgotten on a shelf of junk and buried under dusty layers of sediment. Its glossy squares checkered in shades of light and dark gray. The heavy slab of marble was all dinged up around the edges and one of the chessmen were missing. A sole white pawn which Lefty replaced with a bottle of eye-drops. “Let the games begin!” He spoke with childlike glee as he cleared a spot on the coffee table.

“Feel free to help yourselves to whatever you want,” I said.

“Guests are entitled to such liberties.”

Lefty spoke in his signature blank stare and deadpan delivery. My response was to reach for the whiskey bottle and take another shot at filling a gaping chasm.

There hadn’t been time to play board games in years and this relic was yet another casualty of my past in which every time I moved from one place to another it followed me along. Being raised on such pastimes of leisure, nothing defined the love for reckless risks and calculated abandon more than this battle of wits. The timeless challenge between opposing minds. And what better way to sate our bloodthirst without drawing any weapons or stepping onto the battlefield? Except I no longer played games which ended with the same result. One winner. One loser.

I reclined back, nearly drifting off altogether. But I could only float so far on a tethered line. I wrestled with an overabundance of emotion as alcohol seeped through every crack and pore, contaminating my better judgment by providing delusion any possible reason to excuse past behavior. Despite the broken communication, I held onto the sliver of a chance something miraculous might happen.

Bong in hand. I sparked up anew. Obliterating any remaining brain cells as I entered the abyss. Eyelids glued. Unwilling to flit open until I sat level with my sights: a cursory overview of the room sketched out Niko’s raggedy frame stuck preening in the reflection of his cracked phone screen. Poor bastard. He was still fooled into believing they might show.

We won the coin toss which further electrified the home crowd.

Billy cleared his throat after allowing Lefty time to arrange the chessmen. “What you doing there, dumb-dumb?”

“Setting up the board for the match.”

“You did it wrong.”

What do you mean? Queens on their own color. Kings facing each other. White square in the bottom right corner.” Lefty rubbed his eyes, but could hardly contain his bewilderment.

“Yes, those are the standard rules. What I mean is that the board’s backwards. I’ma go ahead and turn it around like that. Presto!”

“But I’m white.”

Lefty turned the board back with the white pieces facing him.

“Oh no, you aren’t. I’m always first.”

“But- but that’s not fair. I’m the one who challenged you.”

“So what? Life’s not fair. It’s actively the opposite. To go first you gotta win that right.”

“We haven’t even played yet!”

“Are you going to finish setting up or complain all night?” Billy yawned in agitation, nearly pushed to his breaking point already when Lefty subsided his mounting frustrations with a turn of the board, reversing their positions.

He grumbled under his breath as he finished lining up the pawns in front of his other pieces while Billy, already playing the victor, gulped down another one of his ginger beers.

“Ahh, listen up and I’ll teach you something. The opening in chess can help you gain the upper hand by weakening the king’s defenses. Which leaves twenty possible opening moves for controlling the board. For once you run out of book moves, you’ll find the game quickly devolves into chaos.”

“My preferred mode for ensuring a victory in my endgame. And yes, I’ve heard of opening move theory.”

Following some added dialogue by the announcers, the football players stormed the field for kickoff.

Billy squared the glasses on his arched nose and stroked the scruff on his chin as he calculated his opening strategy to control the board, particularly the center, and set up possible opportunities for an early capture. He eventually opened with a move straight from the textbook. His king pawn pushed forward two squares.

The match had officially begun. Eleven players on each side. First possession. The linemen smashed into each other at the whistle, blending in with the snowflakes. First down ended on a short run with little yardage gained.

“When it comes to openers you should be made aware that white holds a slight advantage over its dark counterpart due to fairness,” said Billy, comparing their chessmen.

“All the more reason why black must be cunning.”

“Or be foul. As in your case.”

If Billy’s plotting was needless and excessive, Lefty embellished his opening even further. After a thorough inspection of the 8x8 checkerboard and his sixteen pieces, he haphazardly moved one pawn forward, then back, before moving to another pawn, studiously weighing its fate before the outcome and doing the same with the left knight, then right, returning them each time with a sigh, his elbows resting upon his crossed knees to support the bulk of his head in his hands.

Just when one thought it couldn’t get more riveting, Lefty jolted back to life with lightning-flash animation. His face forked in a peculiar grin as he stood there with both arms akimbo. His fighting stance.

He flicked his wrist for a dramatic flourish as he countered his opponent’s pawn with his own, and let go—only to return to his previous square.

Second down. A second offensive running play with zero yards gained.

“Uh, what you think you’re doing there, big guy?”

“What you mean?”

“You can’t move back once your finger’s off.”

“Says who?”

“Every chess master who’s ever lived. I swear, it’s like playing against a toddler.”

“But I changed my mind and placed it back before your move. That’s legal.”

“Not in my book.”

“Someone was in chess club back in elementary school.

“Damn right.”

“OK. We can play your way for now. But we’ll see how smug your face looks when the advantage flips.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to keep progressive.”

“Progressive in the traditional sense,” Lefty straightened at the whistle for another play which resulted in a dropped pass and another down. He continued: “There’d be far less dispute over what’s considered correct. Take this game, for instance.”

“Let’s not trivialize this further,” Billy waved off his rising boredom. “What’s important is that you play my way.”

“I thought it was about winning fair and square. But I won’t do it again, happy?”

“Sure. Still your move.”

“I’ll move my other pawn, if you’ll allow it.”

Lefty moved his queen’s pawn one space.

“Has it been that long since you’ve played? You can open with two spaces, y’know?

“Everyone knows that. But that’s not how I open.”

Billy arched one of his brows. “You mean to tell me that you chose to move a single space when everyone universally takes two? Unlikely. You fail. I’ll see how quick and painless I can make this.”

“My exact thinking.”

End of third down. The return man received the punt return in our endzone for a touchback. Change of possession.

“Allow me to represent the hope campaign,” said Billy. Every one of his answers being politically charged. “The kind to bring a sweeping sense of order to this class divided world that’s rife with inequity.”

“Don’t be such a moralist. It’s unbecoming of you.”

The stage was set for a debate as both smug-faced candidates smiled and waved from their podiums. It was from here, placed on ahigh, that all creatures of congress, their tanned leather faces and pearly whites veiled behind thin-lipped smirks, as they performed their predatory rites of devouring more than their share. The awful state of our union was the same old critique with a cosmetically enhanced visage. State actors and paid politicians proved to be the sum of their parts. Equaling a fractured whole. Both parties being superficial systems for government actors who indulged themselves on public spectacle to play roles while lobbyists campaigned for the candidate who lined their pockets most. These civil magicians mastered the art of saying one thing while, with a sleight of hand, doing another.

Despite the playful jabs both parties remained civil while an advertisement block broke up the mind-numbing gameplay. Vying for attention until my cellphone unexpectedly buzzed.

No matter how thick the ice grew it could crack.

hi :)

Word at last! I could hardly believe it. Somehow this single word response affected my equilibrium worse than any skull and crossbones available, thrusting me into an even harder head scratching position than Lefty who couldn’t seem to decide how long to take between turns.

When he finally chose which knight he wanted to charge with, he sighed, according to routine, before ultimately settling on a whim to move another piece in the final moment. This time, crossing the board too confidently with his bishop. Perceiving this threat, Billy met him laterally to block him with his queen. Billy returned a laugh quicker than Lefty could retreat.

The TV roared.

Here I’ve waited on the hours in agonizing misery for an answer and I didn’t have a single move. As if facing a chess problem of my own design.

Never had I struggled so much to wrest the words I wanted to say from the crackpot of nonsense stewing in my mind. I completely froze over. As if no longer walled off from the harsh extremes beating upon the walls. The irony was that now I’d been given the opportunity, I couldn’t bear having it on another’s terms.

Amidst every red flag and warning came something in the smoke signals to place me back on that same cloud from when we first met. Leading me to concoct the best of the worst I could muster in response.

Hey, stranger. Long time no talk…

Nothing left for me to do now but pretend to watch the TV. Above which hung a thick, black halo.

“God, I love this sport.”

“What do you know about it, Lefty?” Niko snapped back. But besides the occasional outburst, he remained mostly subdued.

“Show up, pregame your tits off, and get rowdy for the home team—what else is there to know?”

Only a few moves in and it was back to the same differences of opinion.

sorry! we went out to breakfast with Chase’s dad and I forgot my phone so we had to drive back home LOL

I looked up to meet Niko’s measured gaze from across the room. He lifted his arms in the air to which, I shrugged my shoulders in response. All of this communicated silently as a local newsflash recapped the November elections and latest economic crisis. A housing bubble that resulted in thousands of foreclosures and a subsequent recession—all in thirty seconds or less.

Billy, always primed to flex his strong political rhetoric, couldn’t help from adjusting his posture and challenging Lefty to a competition of shameless party devotion with the usual tactics, advancing his knight to lead the charge as he delivered his state of the union address.

“Such an atrocity would never occur if we taxed the wealthy their due. It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. At least hold corrupt banks accountable for their faulty loans. Forget austerity measures. How much longer can we treat greedy corporations like individuals?”

“Likely forever as long as greedy people take handouts.” Lefty set his black rook straightforward.

Being trapped in the same binary coding which painted all serious matters in black and white it was merely a game of role playing for Billy and Lefty. Both of whom had inherited the colors of their party affiliation. But with partisanship promoted home team complacency we’ve become doomed on either side to cultural traditions where the only thing missing in identity politics was the individual.

“I advise you to rethink that position. You’re comparing trifling sums to government stimulus packages for those affected by the housing crisis.” Billy continued. “Besides, this is a 30-year mortgage we’re talking about, not social security. People only expect fair interest rates which won’t hike over the years.”

“If the money isn’t theirs to begin with, you can’t expect fairness.”

“Like the value of a home is pocket change. Observe the conservative playbook at hand for stripping our middle class of their equitable wealth. I can’t wait to hear your rationale for such a pitiable stance.” Billy had successfully baited him with his stratagem of clever tricks, eagerly awaiting the expected repartee.

Lefty’s chest puffed up. Readying himself in the natural position for him to regurgitate his own rehearsed spiel and radical agenda. The one undoubtedly inherited from angry AM radio broadcasters and his upbringing. He quivered and shook. Hot words bubbled in his mouth. Like an oozing magma mounting with pressure on the verge of an eruption that held any spectator in suspense.

Except nothing happened. We all paused to watch the rival team complete a 43-yard field goal on the TV set.

Billy groaned as Lefty met his sparring partner’s feint with a parry, angling an errant pawn to capture his pawn en passant, suggesting simply, “How about that which serves the people?”

The satisfaction of drawing first blood always came at a price, and that small taste of victory soon grew into an insatiable thirst.

Billy was determined to even the score and the sacrificial pawn was merely a gambit to capture one of the black bishops with his knight.

“If by interests you mean their wallets,” Billy returned, punctuating his riposte with a sharp thrust. “Why yes, I most certainly do.”

No more sparring. Casualties were balanced once more.

After spending much too long tempering my response to Sophia I hit send. Really? That sucks. Does that mean you’re in for the night?

Lefty moved another pawn into place. “No shame in that. Which is why we don’t need economic oversight.”

“Unless there’s a government shutdown.”

“What makes you worried about that?”

“Budget clashes… Bureaucrats running amok in office… Manufactured public hysteria… You know, the usual national crises which stoke financial toil and political unrest. All because one party refuses to strike a bipartisan deal.”

“Talk about an oxymoron.”

“Face it. The GOP views public health care, or any publicly funded program for that matter, as leeching the federal budget and akin to cardinal sin. Don’t scoff. Imagine if your house catches fire. You’d call the Fire Department. They respond to the emergency. And rightly so. There’s no bartering for the best option on the consumer market or bundled emergency package while your personal belongings get engulfed by flame. Why? It’s a public service. Same as the police department. Drunk driving citations are a big business for the courts. Even the towing company gets a cut.”

“You do realize the taxpayers pay for it?”

“Is that meant to be a trick question?”

“Hardly. Just gauging what accounts for your severe lack of judgment is all. At any rate, if poor folk are lining up for loans with high interest rates, I say let them. It’s a free country.”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s my inalienable right.”

“You mean, unalienable. What does the first amendment mean to you exactly?”

“Equal opportunity in the public forum.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Besides, I don’t want to fork over my taxes towards any government stimulus package. If you don’t want to raise an unwanted baby then it’s pretty simple. Abstinence.” Lefty said. “It’s not my fault if you can’t keep your legs shut.”

“This isn’t the 19th century. Avoiding the subject only worsens the problem. You’re no better than parents who don’t want schools to educate their children about safe sex so they go out and experience it on their own without the proper tools.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Contraceptives. Awareness of risks like STIs. It’s our biological imperative to reproduce and whether you’re doing it or not, others will be.”

To this last point, Lefty demurred.

“I’m doing it alright. Although I’m smart enough to wear a condom. I think I’m in the majority with this.”

“Everyone knows a real man pulls out.”

The ad hominem attacks continued. With another straw man argument constructed on the back of Lefty’s next retort.

“Or covers the abortion cost, if that’s the case. It should be your problem to raise otherwise.”

“Apparently in a red state. Check.” Billy, growing bored with the tiresome pace, lunged to the forefront with his knight to capture another black pawn. His checking piece supported by a bishop.

“Meaning what?”

“You’re benighted, plainly. And it’s incumbent that I keep you in check.”

“And I’ve got plenty of ways out,” said Lefty after castling kingside to reinforce his stance behind a broken row of pawns.

“There you go changing the rules again.”

“What’s that?”

“You can’t castle your king to get out of check.”

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“Of course you haven’t. But I’ll allow it. As I’m sure you could use the handicap.”

The match wore on. Except the issue was far from settled.

“How kind,” said Lefty, rolling his eyes. “Need I remind you about the Republican gains in Congress? We’re the voted majority.”

“You seem to forget the checks and balances of administrative policy. Check again.” Billy said, advancing his queen diagonally to the front lines in a brazen attack.

Lefty interposed a pawn between the king and checking piece.

“Too bad elected officials are mere pawns.”

“Are we not all pawns in the match of life?” Niko voiced softly from his corner, glancing aside to avoid our questioning stares. Only I knew the reason for his disheartened tone and blushing cheek.

Having been shot for shot with me it was in his interest to overplay his drunkenness. The sight of him in this state was dismal. Unshaved and disheveled, coarse brown hair fell over his face in a tangled mop. I knew he’d be pretty worked up over Chase. But having been so preoccupied myself I didn’t realize how much he suffered from a loaded heart.

Billy retreated back to avoid premature capture of his queen.

Right when I had nearly given up hope altogether, she reached out. Reigniting my hopes again.

maybe. We’re trying to figure it out now haha

“Besides,” Billy pushed on, “for all your blind Pro-Life advocacy, it’s funny how eager you are to see people fry in the electric chair.”

“Only crooks and defectors. I’m a humanitarian. What’s the problem?” Lefty hit back. On-guard.

“You simply can’t dispute Roe vs Wade’s impact on the declining crime rate in the following decades.” Having drawn Lefty’s attention to these side points, he took an unsuspecting pawn with his charging knight. Ending his turn with an emphatic snort.

“I believe our prison system is to thank for that,” Lefty said, and with another grandiose gesture segued to his next arguing point.

“You subscribe to beliefs like comforts sold by the bottle.” Billy moved his bishop to the front lines with an angular strike.

“What’s comfort other than a state of mind?” Niko groaned aloud. His question left to linger as Lefty hooked his dark horse unheeded to counter Billy’s bold advance.

“Too bad nobody likes a white knight,” he said with an added flick and a flourish to this fatal lunge.

The first quarter closed with an interception. For once Billy appeared visibly shocked. Stricken with disbelief as his most virtuous piece got swept clean off the board. He was incredulous to the egregious affront of having been thwarted. Never had he fathomed such a lowly opponent to have the audacity to take the upper hand. And for that he’d dearly pay.

They squabbled on. But I quickly lost interest. Having no stakes in the action.

Minutes passed like nails through a coffin. My own, of course. Being already too late as what was once light fluff falling from the sky steadily began to pack.

So what’s the decision?

Yet it didn’t matter how loudly I screamed from my end. Nothing returned from the other side.

It wasn’t long before I became consumed by overwhelming despair. Did I honestly expect something different? Dejected already, I dropped the phone as the home team missed a field goal attempt. At least they weren’t missing out on a good game anyway. I tried tuning out the disappointing performance but new tensions flared up in a bout of heated discourse. Fomenting further discontent on both ends of the divide.

“I maintain what I said before, however,” Billy made his move utilizing the remaining white knight, defiant. “The U.S. is an oligarchy. And straight to the highest bidder we’re sold.”

“Like affordable public health care. Thanks, sitting democratic leader.”

“Don’t get me started. Health care is a right. Not a privilege.”

Glazed over with orgiastic zeal and bubbling over with pseudo-religious fervor, Lefty abandoned the right-angles in favor of the cunning maneuvers of his remaining bishop. Moving diagonally with his line of attack.

“That’s where you’re sadly mistaken, my fellow compatriot. Nothing comes for free or without the blood and sweat of hard work.”

“Consider if you will the nineties and the Dot.com boom—all of which led to the Silicon Valley. Opportunity abounds for all.”

“Does that account for panhandlers on the street corner? Meanwhile, national debt is on the rise as grifters continue to wheel and deal the US Treasury.”

“Spoken like a true pundit’s puppet. Those trapped at the bottom of the pyramid are affected by crony capitalism like a mass-marketed byproduct. But you’re shaking your head now, what do you suppose?”

“Simple. Most people are lazy.” Lefty moved straight-ahead. Displacing one of Billy’s key defensive pieces with his rook.

“I sense a logical fallacy there.”

“Yet you’re the laziest person I know.”

Lefty picked up the bong to load a bowl.

“Which only proves,” Billy explained further, bringing his polished knight back to the rescue, “there’s an additional need for funded programs. Ones which provide equal share.”

“Funded by the state?”

“Federal.”

“No thanks. I’d say that’s the real fallacy.”

“To which of my concise points?”

“All of the above. It goes against everything the Constitution stands for. This isn’t the United States of Communism!”

“Then explain this, you claim to want a smaller government but take no issue with our exorbitant military budget.”

“Freedom isn’t free.”

“Certainly not for a bombastic blowhard who doesn’t understand economic multiplying effects of infrastructure projects in which you spend during crises by ramping up state funding. Like China, for example.”

“Such talk explains the Republican wave from the midterm elections.”

Possession of the football traded after four plays. The game quickly going nowhere with back-and-forth scoreless drives so I took it upon myself to hasten things along.

Still tryna drop by?

While I waited for to respond, I couldn’t help from looking around the room and pondering over how a crossed threshold invited your guest to play host until I felt a familiar buzz. Sophia.

we’re trying to! :) weather permitting, of course

More than taken back by her playfulness, I began constructing my response when the camera panned across a section of cheering fans which caused Lefty to jump from his seat. Nearly knocking over the pieces on the board.

“What are you spazzing out for? Stop it.” Billy censured him with a fixed look.

“It’s Thresher! And his old roommate Silky. And the Remoras. We saw them at the trailer with the loud speakers and those mini corndogs you liked.”

“I’m well aware. We went to the same private school, dummy. And I never mentioned anything about no corndogs. The rest sounds familiar, though. It all start to get fuzzy after my third or fourth Bloody Mary.”

“I recall it perfectly. Sandwiched between the red truck with the Jagerbombs and the tent with hot dogs and jalapeño poppers where we saw that Chase girl at.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy hissed back. But it came too late.

I pounced upon Lefty at once. “Who was there?”

“You know, the usual. Thresher. Silky.”

“After that. Next to the truck with the Jagerbombs and jalapeño poppers.”

“The jalapeño poppers were on the other side. But yeah, that Sophia chick was there with her friend. Mason Remora too.”

Out at last. And caught in the act. It seemed like I should’ve known better than to trust her show of truth and beauty. Turns out there was more artifice in her intentions than her painted face. Infected with desire I became caught by the snares of love. Or was it lust? Who knew my obligation to faithfully see things through would be rewarded with sweet lies. Mason surely would’ve known about us. Always the crafty opportunist he would’ve loved nothing more than to rob me of a good thing.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Are you dating her or something?”

“No.” I admitted, unable to conceal my pained expression.

“That’s good. She didn’t seem to be particularly tied down.”

Billy shot him down with another look. I wanted nothing more than to tune everything out entirely. Lefty worsened the situation further.

“But why should you care? Plenty more where she came from, am I right?”

I wasted no time in sending out my following text.

Why bother when you haven’t even tried?

I couldn’t believe it. Not only had she already come to town but she expected to get catered to—so typical—and it soon became increasingly clear that she never planned to come at all.

The hostilities continued.

“When we’re talking progressive policies,” Billy risked more, his methods plagued by repetitious virtue signaling, for which he called upon his queen to attack with another turn of the thumbscrew, “Don’t be bamboozled by the color of my collar. There must be a tight system in place to ensure the wheels turn. Protocols. Red tape.”

“Exactly why I don’t pay for someone’s free ride with my hard-earned cash.”

“You nor the 1-percent.”

“Pitch a tent on Wall Street if you’d like. This country is falling apart with that kind of thinking.”

“Which says a lot about your right-wing constituents.” Billy swiped another pawn off the board. Going for a mating combo with his rook.

“Don’t tread on me. What you’re talking about is socialism.”

“Except socialism is fascism.”

“No. Fascism is right. Socialism is left.” Lefty was back on the offensive. Interposing his queen between his king. His disdain made palpable by his constant need to overexplain things. “Next you’ll try selling me on climate change like a true swindler.”

“I can do that free of charge, thank you. Some basic research can teach you all about man’s impact on the delicate global ecosystem from holes in the ozone to the receding polar ice caps.”

“No thanks. I already know it’s a marketing scheme. What they don’t want you to know is the ice is shifting to the other side of the planet.”

Another down. No yardage lost or gained.

“Says who? Maybe your garden variety doomsday prepper, but not any reputable scientist.”

“Someone I know. He’s one of my dad’s old buddies and a close family friend.”

“An anonymous source. How convenient.”

“No, you just wouldn’t know him so there’s no point in disclosing his name.”

“Sorry, but you’ll need to cite sources for such an outlandish claim.”

“He teaches at a high school so I’d say a fairly reliable source.” Lefty lay sideways on the couch, drowning his eyes with smoke, as he captured Billy’s attacking rook.

wait…what do u mean? we’re just waiting for the roads to get plowed

They continued trading barbs.

“Listen to this rabble-rouser!” Billy slapped his knee. “Spouting off any trite nonsense or outright lying to get ahead.”

To which, Lefty responded with full-throated bravado.

“Always, and with glee,” he nodded in affirmation. Still on the offensive. “The trick to a long healthy life isn’t nearly as difficult as it seems, you see. No. Sometimes you’re playing with a strong suit, but more often than not, you end up with a bust. I learned a long time ago it’s not the cards you’re dealt but how well you play them.”

By now, the pitch of their voices gradually sounded more or less the same.

“Is that not part of being an adult? What about personal accountability?” Said one voice.

“Or self-control for that matter.” Said the other.

“Sorry, I’m not sorry. I don’t apologize for shit.” To which, Lefty added. “We live in a world shaped by tyrants. Which is why I oppose amnesty for illegal immigrants.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with some healthy isolationism, am I right?” Billy made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm.

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“Except for a little thing called the global economy. You never cease to amaze me with your hair-brained ideology. It smacks of inexperience and if not for that congenital defect, you’d be like any other long-haired hipster smoking pot on campus. Which isn’t too surprising coming from a cop’s son.”

“Quid pro quo. You never seem to mind having a guardian angel with a badge watching over us. He tipped us off when the call came to bust more than one party. It’s not dumb luck that you’ve never got a drinking ticket.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far enough from the tree indeed. Is being the NRA’s poster boy worth the gun violence constantly reported in the news. You do watch the news, don’t you? Or scroll through your social media feed, at least.”

“I’m likely the only one smart enough to avoid it. In fact, this day and age the best thing to do is hunker down with an arsenal of guns before shit really hits the fan. You’ll see how quickly your precious social niceties fall to the wayside.”

“Accidental deaths, active shooters, inner city gang warfare: and your answer to all these problems is more guns? Don’t get me started.”

“What’s the matter? Guns never killed no one. It’s who pulls the trigger.”

“And you think it’s safer if we all open carry?”

“Living in a predatory world… uh, yeah.”

“Good grief. You almost make me want to get a gun. It would appear we still live in the Wild West.”

“Now you’re getting it. The new American frontier.”

Billy examined the board. His bushy brows furrowed behind his spectacles.

“It’s a broken system.” He muttered at last.

“There’s no denying that,” said Lefty. “All I can say is God bless, America. Land of the free.”

“Belligerent. You’re only saying that because you value free market systems over democracy. All considered, how do you answer for Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, or the Mai Lai massacre?”

“War spoils.”

Of all the inane things Lefty took umbrage to or which caused him be up in arms he couldn’t be bothered by any real-life atrocities.

The opposing blue team successfully kicked a second field goal.

The referee blew his whistle. Halftime. 6-0. It was a game with little to no action in which we hadn’t put a single point on the board.

Billy and Lefty were still engaged with their feud. Niko dangled by the last fraying thread, silently watching. His watery eyes; red, swollen, and enflamed, hung heavily in their baggy sockets. Wherein a minute’s hope reflected back a whole world of grief. Forsworn by broken vows and drunker and more vulnerable than ever before.

Too cold for comfort, my drunken laziness got the better of me and I lit up a cigarette inside the house. Thus, sparking the revolution everyone else was dying for as we sat encircled within our curling smoky tendrils.

I sat there silently fuming. Something had to give.

The build-up of sorrow stung at their throbbing source. An endless expression of hot, burning pain upon having received such harsh cruelty. If they never planned to come then so be it. But why insist on dangling us along one moment to the next where once again, I remained faithful to prior engagements that were broken from the start. So in a final, desperate act I gripped the cold metallic phone in my trembling, sweaty palms. Pointer finger enflamed. Already bracing for the worst. I knew there’d be no harm in calling her out now: So you say…yet we’ve been here waiting for you all day because of plans we made.

The second half began. But for me the game was already over. With any victory forever eluding my grasp.

It didn’t take long for her to compose a mini-paragraph in response explaining in full detail all the trouble they had to go through with her (or was it Chase’s?) family. How after every effort they were still stuck out and unable to make the drive out north. My ballooning expectations had all but deflated yet, she still dangled the possibility of making it over if the inclement weather somehow subsided.

I don’t believe it. Also, how was tailgating this morning?

I withdrew from mindless spectating altogether and lit up another cigarette. Filling my already burning chest and wondering what she was really up to given what I currently knew. Accosted by imaginings of her past conquests of other beds as the match wore on.

Both teams traded possession back and forth. In a deadlock of hard tackles with the seconds whittling down on the play clock.

Interception. Turnover on downs.

The chess match, having already approached the middle game, made the switch from conservative play to mass casualties due to liberal carelessness. Sacrificial chess pieces lay scattered all around the checkered board. Including both queens. Any potential breakthrough resulting in a subsequent lapse of judgment that cost them sorely. Like poor defense from the home team leading to another touchdown. Bringing the score to 13-0.

The living room was hot and muggy. The collective haze swirling around our heads. Most of the company who came to pick up had left by now and Niko, looking paler than ever, fell into a deep snooze. Curled up on the ground like it was a king-sized mattress and rocking with each heavy breath. A bit of spittle on his chin. The bottle clutched in his fleshy pink grip. Empty save for its final drops. Billy and Lefty were almost through with their Old Testament chess match where each piece taken got counterbalanced by the other until the only pieces left were their kings and a single pawn. Save Lefty who held onto a trusty rook which gave him the upper hand.

It wasn’t until the first minute of the fourth quarter that the home team successfully completed a field goal. Putting three points on the scoreboard, 13-3.

We were back in the running. But it was too little too late.

The chessboard remained the same for over fifteen minutes, and it had been twice as long since someone uttered a single word. Such quietude wasn’t bound to last.

“When will this ever end!” Lefty said, balling up his fists. “Let’s start over.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Billy coolly extinguished his cigarette. Recalcitrant to a fault. “Don’t be so glib. I nearly mated you and ended this multiple times already. I’ll do so again. Don’t you fret. That and it sounds like too much of chore.”

“If you say so. Is not the morale of David and Goliath that it takes an underdog to win?” said Lefty. Spoken like a true religious panderer.

“Lefty, you’re no more David than the Son of Sam. Besides, how’d that underdog mentality fare for the rebels in the south?”

Lean forward. Pack a bowl. Strike the dome. Repeat. With enough solvents I could dissolve any problem. My solution. Eventually I felt grateful to weather the storm with a little company. Such reasoning withstood the test of bad company and the harshness of time.

It was the next unexpected jolt which crushed my schoolboy hopes for good.

we went for an hourish but we had no clue u were waiting! promise

“Check,” said Lefty. Black king had white king hemmed on the back-rank with black rook giving check. Pinning Billy’s pawn to his king. All Lefty needed to do was get his final pawn across the board to be promoted to another piece. Presumably bringing his queen back to the equation before hunting down white’s king like wild game. A painstaking, yet fruitful endeavor if the match were to ever end.

Except Billy thought otherwise.

He bit the tip of his thumb and weighed the consequences. On the brink of a smothered mate in which his own piece prevented his king from fleeing. He was clearly too stubborn to know when to admit defeat and moved one thought at a time, and after what felt like hours of painstaking deliberation, he moved his king one square. But instead of utilizing the plethora of available squares to flee to he moved back to the square he was just on which brought him out of check again.

Lefty pursued with his black rook, thus blocking Billy’s pawn from advancement. “Check.”

And then you left? Why waste our time like this?

Under attack, Billy frowned at the obstacle before him. Puzzled. After he carefully reviewed all the angles again, his king escaped attack by retreating to another flight square. The same one it was previously on.

Again, black rook checked white king.

There were no legal moves left for the white king to evade capture. Billy moved in front of Lefty’s pawn for the second time.

“Check again,” said Lefty. Triumphant already.

“So you know, one usually asks for a draw after making the same move three times in a row,” said Billy matter-of-factly.

“No chance in hell. I want to see my end game through.”

According to his logic, Billy theorized he could move back and forth between the same two spots. Ad infinitum. Which he did.

im cold. i guess

Like a defective sprinkler head Lefty broke off from his latest rant. His talk broken, sputtering out in uneven blocks of expletives.

“The fuck is this shit!” He spit venom. Yellow spittle splattering the board. “Every other square’s available but you’re stuck in zugzwang.”

“Very cute of you to make up words but I don’t have to make a move that worsens my position. Besides, if I move somewhere else, I’m at a disadvantage to lose.” He explained in a sarcastic tone which failed to legitimize his stance.

“Isn’t the whole point to determine a winner? A good sport would pick another square already.”

So that’s it? I replied in exhaustion.

Billy surveyed the board with finality.

“But it’s a stalemate,” he said.

“That’s no goddamn stalemate! You’ve gotta make another move. Right?” Lefty tried appealing to a still slumbering Niko and myself before blowing up over how big of a sore loser Billy was for not even having the dignity to lose the match with honor and respect. Apparently, that didn’t matter much to either of them. Eventually I gave up on waiting for any agreement to be had with the black and white checkered board looking more like gradations of gray.

“But I don’t want to move to another square.”

i’m not sure what to say…

“But you have to.”

A liar, thief, murderer, tyrant, traitor, rebel, cheat, stony-hearted and wicked spirit. These were among some of the other words I wanted to suggest in regards to such art. For nothing could prevent this ugly, poisonous thing from welling up inside.

“Says who?”

That you simply had a change of heart. Should we even keep talking?

“Anybody who’s played chess, for starters. Checkmate!”

“Checkmate my ass.”

The fight continued. But I could no longer deny the logical conclusion that an early climax led to. I had only tricked myself into believing there to be an ace up the sleeve, and having no escape from showing the losing hand after pushing all-in, I laid it all out.

And since things were done, I decided to make it even worse for myself.

Judging from this painful silence, there’s something I must confess—choked up with emotion, it was impossible to exhale the trapped breaths welling up in my throat—about not being fully truthful in the past. I’ve never raced before. Not for the Academy. Not ever. Wherever we end up from here I just needed you to know I’m not all that you thought I was

There it was. How else did one go about owning their inexperience?

Her response was just as sad.

sorry

I had no idea :(

All communication ceased after that.

The football fumbled. Having cast my burden, I at once became trapped under a rising swell. A cloud with enough grains of salt to vex and rub the eyes raw like sandpaper. Resulting in droplets which made oceans out of each desert. Their salt-shaken dunes dematerializing as our second-string quarterback completed a touchdown pass.

It turned into a one-possession game for a winning comeback.

“Got another cig for me?” Billy broke the silence at last. Tapping Lefty’s leg as he gawked at the replay onscreen.

They paused to watch the 42-yard field goal attempt. The football curved ever so slightly and passed within inches of the goal post.

“Shit. That makes it 10-16. There’s only four left in my pack,” said Lefty.

“Perfect. Two each.”

I wiped away the wetness with shaky palms, already anticipating the loss as I searched for potential candidates to latch my fury onto, and the flick of a lighter was the perfect spark.

“Another one. Really?” I said.

“That’s what we were just discussing,” they chuckled. “This game is never ending.”

“I’m talking about the cigs.” I accosted them while they lit their cigarettes end-to-end.

The crushed butts in the ashtray began to create a series of miniature fires. Like a bouquet of filters in full bloom with bright, hazardous for your health colors.

“What?” They were equally stunned with confusion.

“It’s like a goddamn casino in here,” I said.

“I love that smell. You started it. Remember?”

“I know, Lefty. And as usual, paying dearly for it. But you know what they say, give an inch,” while still mid-gripe, I yanked the chain to the ceiling fan to turn it on when the entire unit detached from the ceiling and came crashing down onto the unsuspecting parties below. Landing squarely between Lefty and Billy on the coffee table.

The living room went black. All except for the TV’s glow which illuminated the scattered pieces from the chessboard along with a startled Niko who, bolting upright from the sudden crash, began feeling for the plastic pill bottle to pop an Addy into his yawning mouth.

Billy’s voice broke the silence.

“A draw by agreement!”

“Such bullshit. I was so about to win.”

Lefty looked down at the scattered pieces of the board. Resigned to disbelief.

“It’s best in cases like this that the losing party acquiesces to the superior campaign.”

“Fear not. We’ll rebalance the scales once more. If not this cycle, then next.”

They remained divided. No pieces remained on the board, and no winner on either side.

The night officially soured after that stunt. Despite having only watched from the sideline, I felt exhausted and spent while the rest remained glued to the events unfolding as our running back rushed the ball three yards into the endzone for another touchdown.

Following an equally successful extra-point conversion, the home team now led for the first time with a whopping one-point spread.

Lefty breathed out a loud sigh. Rubbing his grubby little hands together.

“What a game. I’m almost proud of the school I attend.”

“Thanks to Buzz wearing the number one jersey,” Billy answered him. “He’s going to take us all the way to a bowl game if you haven’t heard.”

“Who hasn’t heard of Buzz? Everybody knows Buzz. We’ve partied together on more than one occasion. Who do you think he’ll play for in the pros?”

“You mean the star running back of our conference? Who knows. The draft order will establish that.”

“What happened to Ramrod, the old running back? I used to always see him at your house on campus.”

“Not sure,” said Billy, his head cocked ever so slightly. “I haven’t seen him since he graduated. Last I heard he was playing a division below the big leagues.”

“I’ll never forget smoking spliff bowls with him in the morning between classes. I love telling people I’ve done drugs with college athletes.”

“Some people’s children,” said Billy, shaking his bristled head before stretching slowly from side to side. “Man, my neck is killing me. Chess takes a toll on the mightiest of minds.”

“I wouldn’t have let it go on so long if I hadn’t mistaken my queen for a bishop.”

“If only the pieces were hand carved by a blind carpenter. It was inevitable.”

“Tell me I didn’t have that in the bag.”

“If not for your oversights, maybe. Maybe not.”

No matter how bad the jeers and insults got they could agree to disagree. Most of the time.

4th & 11 yards to go. In the final seconds of the fourth quarter. The rival team had one last attempt to reclaim their victory with a 42-yard field goal attempt—blocked!

We were the winners. Except I had lost. Twisted out of my frigid state, and boiled over with hate. I thirsted for bloodshed well after any ceasefire had been made.

“So that’s it?” I cut through my anger at last, picking up the scattered bits of my living room so that I could put it back together again, piece by piece.

They both looked over. Equally shocked.

“All that huffing and puffing for hours on end and all for naught? What a waste.”

“It’s only a game. One wins.”

To which, Lefty finished for him.

“One loses.”

“Shut up. But yes. One loses.”

“Excepting stalemates.”

“Then you’ve got two losers. It’s all the same. Don’t you partake in organized sports?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“It’s likely the biggest reasons why I’m transferring out of state soon,” Lefty said.

“Yeah, you think. Where to?”

“I’m thinking about Eugene, Oregon. They’ve got a real program there.”

“You’re moving because of a college football team?”

“That and a new job opportunity. A new life. A new everything. Wanna come?”

The notion alone conjured up images of them living together. Constantly bickering and arguing about whose turn it was to take out the garbage. Like reruns of a sitcom that you’ve seen one too many times.

“Are you seriously inviting me to bum on your couch? Or should I say you’re currently hypothetical couch?”

“Yes. Why the hell not?”

“Please, I’ve got a warm bed now and I’m back on good terms with my folks after crashing my car beyond blackout drunk. It will take a better arrangement than that to accept free board. I’ve got respect for myself.”

“Like sexual payment for rent,” I connected the dots for him.

“See? Someone gets it. Besides, some of us nearly traded blows after living under the same roof together. Isn’t that right?” He elbowed me hard. “One such instance ended with me putting this guy in a chokehold for acting like an unruly drunken baboon and breaking my personal things.”

No matter how much you try to add meaning to your life it only got reduced to embarrassing moments with friends they made impossible to forget. These were the people who stayed with you for life. And Billy’s favorite line, “I’ll always feel bad for almost killing you,” translated to his love for going through extreme lengths to casually bring up how I nearly began to convulse until he let go. No mind that time he drunkenly punched a mirror at a college party then had to be rushed to the hospital after losing too much blood.

But I kept my rising anger in check. “That was at the green house on campus. We lived in the Avenues together.”

“Where I lasted one month.”

“I’ll always think fondly of your place on H Street.” The always sentimental Lefty began to get teary-eyed.

“Girls would leave after twenty minutes at that shit hole,” said Niko, not fully awake and sounding despondent and far out. “I’d have done the same.”

The classic scapegoat argument. Where I was somehow responsible for the collective failures of their unrealized youth. How ironic the disaster experience which was my first college house was equally bad for those who didn’t pay rent.

“Somebody also got their car keyed there.” Lefty began to laugh while wiping the wet from his eyes.

“Enough. It’s a quarter past five,” I said, turning the TV off.

They simply stared back in the dark as if broken from deep concentration until I helped them grasp what I meant.

“The big storm should hit soon. We should head before the snow flies,” said Lefty.

Billy scratched his head.

“Already? Where does the time go?”

“I’m stuck on the same quandary. I’ll come sometime tomorrow to fix your ceiling fan.”

They continued talking while I sat there gripping the cold bong in the dark. Smoke still streaming from my mouth.

Cut off from one, I remained too available for the rest.

It would be nearly another half an hour before they got around to loading their last bowls by candlelight. Niko’s speed pills had officially kicked in and he soon zoomed in and out the light of the flickering flame.

After every bowl I torched it felt as if a tectonic plate had shifted. Head leaned back, with both eyes snapped shut, my swirling thoughts spun like vacuous whirlpools as I spiraled down into nothingness. I imagined being anywhere else, away from home, away from everyone altogether.

“Last ciggy?” Billy fielded the crowd.

Such bliss couldn’t be found. Whenever I began to sink deeper into sweet oblivion I was pulled back. My mind being like a broken record. Stuck on Sophia.

Devoid of any visible emotion, I didn’t bother reaching for my pack. Niko repeatedly flipped the top of his empty pack open having smoked his last cigarette hours ago until Lefty jumped to his aid.

“You’re bumming me out. There should be a brand-new pack in the car.”

“That was quite a row we had back there.”

“Or two. Sorry about that.”

“No, the fault was mine. We must’ve gotten carried away.”

“Not half-bad while it lasted.”

“Wait until we play again.”

They got sucked out the open door with the rest of the stale smoke. I was more than relieved to see them out. Their voices trailing out onto the porch where they hung around longer for a smoky nightcap.

Cold moonlight flooded the living room until the door slammed shut.

Alone at last—save for the company of the screaming wind. Like a wolf pup’s first howl.

Outside their voices eventually dwindled. Burned out: I relit the dying embers within my chest. Bent forward and doubled over with my double-vision, I was sick of being comfortably tired, with bong in hand, unable to cast aside the burden of my desires.

The candle’s flame licked up. An orange tongue that sent long shadows onto the opposing wall. Their menacing, dancing shapes a result of their distorted proportions.

The still night got broken by an eerily high-pitched call followed by a frantic scratching at the door.

Fearing one of the boys had forgot their cellphone or wallet I froze. Somehow knowing it was entirely different. I grew rigid. Goosebumps forming upon my skin as the hideous noise picked up, sounding more dire, more desperate, than ever before. Accompanied with a pained yowl, the ominous portent which emanated from the porch was no friend returning for their wallet or phone. It had come to stay.

Within its wretched call I discerned a plea. One that translated crudely to an unrelenting rapping in my head. Its resinous contents bubbled up with the paranoia of who or what awaited me on the other side until I could stand the suspense no longer and sprang upwards onto my quaking feet. My heart fluttering against the ribcage.

Opening up a tiny crack, I stared into blackest winter night before I gradually unhinged even more.

Silence…. all sound buried beneath cushioned heaps of snow that continually kept falling. All the rest carried upon a familiar wind. It would take a hellish blizzard such as this to bring the worst of it to my doorstep.

But right when I opened up wide, ready to face whatever my ills had brought to my door, the jagged outline of a wretched form pieced itself together. Starting with two piercing black eyes.

The black dog’s shadowy form spilled across the threshold. It sat there. Huddled, and shivering on the porch as if daring not to enter without my express permission. Its fiery stare deadened to burnt cinders. My heart pained for the foreboding shape lumbering inside for warmth and whatever scraps could be freely given. Which filled me with dread knowing it had been left out in the cold, and for how long.

I reached out to receive my forgotten companion. Using a hand on either side to lead the poor thing inside where it could be protected from winter’s elements. Laying on the couch, I coaxed its’ shaggy, coarse fur. Consumed over all that transpired with Sophia until falling into a deep slumber. Chest heaving, I held on for dear life knowing I’d never forsake true love again.

Beneath my coverture of gloom her image got polluted. Inversions of thought which muddled heavenly hells until pleasant to abhor. Confined by duties and devotion she readily awarded with pain and confusion. As if held in bondage of an unsavory transaction which forfeited the debtor’s pay for use.

Come to think of it, I always enjoyed staring into the smoldering flame. Forever bound to burning ash and cinders. The restless rustle fanned my smoky embers as we got buried deeper by night.

                                                                     *     *     *

The city came to an abrupt standstill—upright and clenched, bracing for the inevitable impact. A flurry of newscasts stormed the airwaves with frightful premonitions. Babbling meteorologists who had the nervous excitement of an unpaid intern. Already knowing the dreadful news, I planned to never leave home. This time I wouldn’t shovel myself out. Happily allowing myself to get holed up inside. Uncorked snowfall persisted for days and was heaviest along the eastern benches. Streets froze over as temperatures dropped. The nonstop snowfall rendered driving impossible without having four-wheel drive while the snowplows struggled to clear the roads long enough to make their efforts worthwhile, let alone minimize the impact of twelve to sixteen inches of snowfall overnight. Snowdrifts piled up on every corner. Formidable snow banks mounded on the curbs and medians of intersections to cast roadside shadows. Walling off each side with packed snow from each passing plow which salted the streets until they were cleared enough for traffic. Allowing the hubbub of daily life to persist next day as everyone dug out their cars using plastic ice scrapers and fell back into their regular channels. Everyone but me. I spent the remaining weekend upon the living room couch. My view through a cracked curtain revealed the destruction and waste laid to all through a cracked sliver. Hunkered down; the thermostat cranked up and furnace blazing, I was more than content with curling up with my thoughts. Subsisting on old soup cans, stale crackers, and spliff bowls while holding minimal communication with the outside world save for the occasional business sale amongst other matters of personal interest. Involving Billy and Lefty. Niko and Billy. Lefty and Niko. Any combination of the three with Niko’s arrival invariably absolving any need for booze. Basically anyone determined or crazy enough to make the trek over were welcome to visit. For each sleepless night the repeated fluffy downpours spared no inch of the valley. Leaving a fresh sheet on all which had been cleared. Fresh heaps of unrelenting white summed up my mounting frustrations. The mountains, the trees, the rooftops—all of it dumped on with enough snowfall to begin anew.

The unrelenting harvest eventually relented, hostile winds abated, and by Tuesday the clear sky shone brilliant and bold for practice.

I was all set to alarm at a clock’s hollow ring. My brain pitted and steamed like over-cooked oatmeal.

I fed the black dog and made sure there was enough water in its bowl before neglecting personal hygiene altogether in favor of a good morning bowl. What difference did cleanliness make when I planned to see nobody? Nobody special anyway.

Despite leaving the house on time my morning commute nearly doubled. The once peaceful drive up the canyon becoming bumper-to-bumper traffic to signal the start of the public ski season.

Carbonado Ski Resort was officially open, over-priced, and overrun with tourists and locals alike who poured in by the droves to pack the fresh powder and leave it completely iced over. The quad lift alone loaded resort guests four-people abreast to usher them across a white canvas scene bedecked with multicolored dots making S-shapes down the mountainside. Racing to the main lodge to warm up with a hot chocolate or order a twenty-dollar cheeseburger for lunch.

On-snow training was in full effect. Coach Price’s regimen only intensified what had been introduced to me at ski camp­. Adhering to his training ratio of 1:3, racing to training. Six days a week.

That dark first morning back didn’t begin until the unexpected boom of avalanche control blasted the mountainside. Hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the gray firmament cracked in a rippling strike of splintered glass. The echoing silence broken by a rush of loosened snow which made the ground tremble.

I stood there dead in my tracks while the team trudged forward. Unfazed by the unannounced quake. The first volley got answered by a second that struck the cleavage of the twin ridges on the opposing side. Shrugging it off as another daily reminder I had to adjust to, I followed as Coach Price led the train full steam towards the chairlift ahead.

Low temperatures robbed me of the feeling in my feet. The numbness spreading like wildfire to my toes. Each frigid breath frozen in mid-air. Floating like a silvery apparition against a chalkboard of black. Squinting ahead, the early traffic of snowcats could be seen flattening vast tracts of powder to groom runs in a steady mechanical crawl. The beams of their nocturnal eyes cutting through the raggedy dark. Coach Price could hardly be seen as he addressed the team up the hillside, patiently waiting for us stragglers to mount the catwalk before bothering to speak. From the darkness, I tried to follow his words blindly in the cavernous black: “… and as I’ve often said, perhaps one or two times too many, our first meet is only a couple weeks away. If this were the National Team your training would’ve been doubled.”

Somehow every one of his we need to get our shit together type talks became an impassioned speech to fuel our fire. His sharp delivery cutting you down only to build you back up again, little by little; using an authoritative tone so convincing it puffed me up with enough drive to make union with what had become the most complicated relationship of my life.

The bitter remnants of last weekend’s storm carried over in snow flurries to mar the one enjoyable activity of riding the ski lift in solace. Fierce gusts blew me every which direction as I focused on my many faults. The slopes below twisted and turned beneath my skis.

Chairs jostled along the line. Bouncing at every swell and nearly touching the piney treetops while I hovered twenty to thirty feet above the ground with my mind entirely on somebody else.

Three days since my low-burning love grew enflamed and the worst of these inclement conditions were yet to pass. Never had I been so distant. Exiled. Estranged. Like being cut off at the bar before having a drink. What was once cherished had been forgotten and cast aside. The heart’s error no more than a filthy pleasure for an unnamed beggar.

And the longer I dwelled in the murky depths of despair the clearer her cunning deceit became. I knew what I’d have to do, swear off this raven-haired vixen and cease communication with her entirely. Such shows of resilience hardly mattered since she was the one who ghosted me to begin with. But if I was tormented by the circumstances—the compound effect was magnified one-hundred-fold on Niko.

He was still coping from being blown off for the game and developed a strange liking to his own self-destruction. His drinking developed into besotted frenzies far worse than his typical belligerence. We all worried about his reckless behavior to varying degrees but none could offer him any solace. Late each night he would arrive ready to drink. Loaded already with bottle in hand he’d pace madly about, stamping and storming in the ritual of one besmirched and his brooding demeanor only worsened with time. His emotions hijacked. He soon wore the agony of the haggard lover. Like a penitent hermit and his sackcloth. Languishing over being rejected in return. His advances denied. Newfound cynicism cultivated upon his brow which betrayed his boyish disposition. Heavy bags hung under his wrinkled-up eyes wherein crow’s feet had perched in the corners. All the hallmarks of one scorned.

Drowning, having drunk too deep. After a lifetime of closely guarding my feelings they were nothing more than a playground for others to climb and swing on before abandoning at will. Simply put, I had blindly followed them one too many times to keep subjecting myself to further heartbreak. The whole charade was reminiscent of many other countless failures to meaningfully connect with another. And glossing over the countless grievances, it would be one thing to be smote by her cruel eye, but her cool love broke all the romantic conventions. How could I excuse her behavior? After a thousand groans, to have had something would be enough. But to lead somebody on without even the opportunity to let them down was most unjust. Except I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t. I impressed onto her who I wanted her to be and ended up falling in love with someone else. Someone wholly unattainable. Someone who didn’t exist. Such a harsh sentence was worthy of any despicable and horny toad. Having once condemned her libertine behavior with the passing flurries I soon played devil’s advocate against myself. If such ungraceful wantonness should be given the benefit of the doubt, having every right to do what we all would with the same capacity to roam, who would make a better choice? Or, on second thought, was this really as vile and unforgivable of a deed that warrants fair censure? Yet, if I had the good sense to chastise my dumb speech and scorn these wicked words, I’d forgive her every misdeed on sole condition she cared to reach out. All I requested on her part was pity and all that it granted. In the interim, I retired single-hearted into a pure ascetic lifestyle to befit my circumstances. Obsessing over the waking hours like that of a hermit or modern-day anchorite. Living in essence on the mountain. Skiing all day. Everyday.

Only then, and after much, much personal reflection could I begin to contemplate how to transcend this boundary, and beyond.

Practice days always began with freeskiing to compose ourselves.

Once I had badged onto the chairlift these were the only moments which belonged to me. My alone time with a higher power before skiing across the moguls to meet in the racing area where Coach Price deployed trade-off drills until wrapping up with parallels to the backdrop of the setting sun. He even had a few exercises in his vast repertoire which covered both speed and technical disciplines. Courses designed to challenge high speeds and test turns with shallow dips and flats thrown in. Sometimes they had extra gates or were composed of two aggregate runs. Coach Price favored combined courses that offered downhill and slalom portions and where, dated one too many years too late, I was set up to fail with my faithful old Elan SCXs.

But my return to the slopes was terminal from the start. I became a cognitive clusterfuck without any semblance of progress whenever I found myself in the starting position for another run.

I stabbed both ski poles into the crust-covered snow. Eyes closed as light flakes patted my face. Adrenaline building. Heart racing. Leading up to the count.

A blunder from the outset—I nearly face-planted out the gates in attempt to pick up for lost time. All conscious thought funneled into impulse while flying through the gates at top speed. The finish line loomed closer each drop down the course until I ended my run more frustrated than all the days put together. I kicked off my skis. Downtrodden, defeated.

Even though I took Coach Price’s expertise to heart, his teachings were promptly lost upon execution. Even worse than my overcritical self-judgement were the tiny details he observed through his trusty pair of binoculars. Viewed harmless from afar, his hooded figure rapidly approached with his executioner’s axe gleaming well before it fell.

Bearing my poor performance in mind already, I dreaded the fatal words fit for only my ears and soon to be delivered without scruples. Often catching me in a scramble at the finish area where he never failed to place me in the crosshairs before any attempt to escape could be made. Screaming at me like an oncoming train while he berated me in over-critical tirades:

“This can’t be right—second gate and already errors.”

“Pressure the downhill ski. Flex ankles and use your feet to initiate movement on turns, not your quads.”

“Cross-blocking is key when running slalom. Straighten those tips, and take a direct line down. Even if that means knocking out poles as you pass.”

Sometimes it would be one of his more elegant quips— “And tuck those goddamn poles in!” All delivered without a vestige of his former mirth at ski camp.

Upon harkening back to my rematch with Drake on that first day I knew when it wasn’t my best performance and tried to remain confident in my abilities. But this was borderline masochistic. Having my every move deconstructed in a scathing, expletive-laden nitpicking of my every fault. It was hard to conceive I willingly sought the harshest truths I never wanted to hear. Harder still not to take it as a personal affront. Like being singled out unfairly. Cheated. Yet, once my turn passed the others invariably got the same treatment. Even Drake wasn’t exempt from a lengthy detailing of what radius his tips should point and to the exact degree. In fact, Coach Price pushed him even harder after Park City. He also gave his signature sprawling, yet pithy, lectures detailing the ins and outs of the two disciplines for this upcoming competition­: two runs of slalom and giant slalom. Always ending with a heavy emphasis on the limited number of practices we had left.

Being off-piste also offered a valuable learning lesson as Coach Price seized model opportunities to pull someone aside, rotating in individual turns, or sometimes paired, to scout runs with him at the bottom. To watch the action from the sideline with a trained eye, he helped deconstruct the runs, turn by turn, with an emphasis on the ski racer’s greatest foe. Time.

Whenever chosen, I paid close attention like never before while Coach Price yelled feedback into his binoculars during each individual pass. He then gave a rundown of their graded performance at the finish, focusing explicitly on the flaws, before imparting tidbits of wisdom ranging anywhere from complimentary to soul-crushing testimonies.

Practice never ended without Coach Price gathering us close together for a blunt, no-holds-barred critique of our overall performance. The mountainside boomed in the wake of every hit volleyed from his direction.

Later on, back at the house and following some bowls and a nighttime walk with my restless pent-up companion, what he said would usually connect and I’d realize he was correct about every admonishment. Especially about things I didn’t want to hear, but so desperately needed my attention drawn to them. The validity of his claims far surpassed my limited insight. Forcing me to recognize how little I even knew about the fundamentals of skiing. A humbling experience which commanded a deeper respect of his expertise and ability to translate that over in plain-spoken language, however painfully clear it might be. Especially if his advice never stuck before the next run. Which it rarely did.

And the better I listened, the more I discovered how little I knew about skiing, once my greatest adoration. A realization that left me at a complete loss, if not at odds with my ambition altogether. I conceded that I was merely a student. In likelihood enrolled for life, and I was fully committed to learning a trade I’ll never fully come to master. A strangely intriguing notion amidst the redundancy found in regular life.

Each night I ended my circuitous progress at the liquor store for a fifth of whiskey. Then following a long, hot shower, where I took care to soak my hobbled feet, I stepped out clean and refreshed with a passing warning to the boys it felt like an early night. Somehow, I always reneged after settling in to stay up with the group just as late as the night before. Smoking bowls and pounding bourbon shots while we reminisced over glory years that never were.

Appearance-wise no dramatic change occurred during my absence. Planted on the couch between smoke sessions while the usual incessant bickering coaxed my unwilling eardrums into tinnitus induced bliss. Every effort to transmute myself into a better skier on my Park City retreat was marked by a series of collective failures. What future was in store for a traveler whose pilgrimage led only to squandering its dazzling insights? A degenerative creature forever dwelling in the shadowy recesses of experience, the arbiter of what was true or not. Noticeable shifts in motivation propelled me closer to what I yearned for as I began each morning; hung-over, haggard, if not still stumbling out from a residual drunk. Morning snaps no longer kept the hounds at bay as my already lackluster performance further deteriorated. I feared this was a mistake to dedicate my greater energy towards a childhood passion I should’ve outgrown. Having already spent my wasted youth too stubborn to train, too late to compete, and too afraid of rejection.

I was dealing in nothing more than your average all-American pipe dream. With a curtain of smoke partly lifted to reveal the sad reality that this stage had to offer. Despite having no art in my craft, practices with the Academy pulled together all the interstitial threads needed to garner an appreciation for this sacred sport. Even if only in mimicry of a greater skier than myself. I accepted like any self-conscious simulacrum that originality was the greatest form of imitation.

Nonethless, I stayed committed to the process. However unpromising that might be. Like automated machinery. Even without knowing how to fix what didn’t work. Running gates six days a week, and going through the motions. I pushed so hard I worked the toes on both feet into giant blisters that calloused with repetitious wear. Yet—any stability got undercut with talk about the coming season from December to April. Like a prickly thorn. And the dreadful routine of dragging myself up the mountain in a race to the next string of Coach Price’s red-lettered invectives outlined every shortcoming to date, and in excruciating detail.

Doubly defeated. I was always ready for the mountain whenever off of it and incapable of performing on it. Once back at home, to my continued chagrin, fancies of conquering every turn and every sharp incline consumed my mind. I could tailor every alteration needed for each discipline by memory. But once snatched from the vapors, this newfound adversity solidified the fact that true mastery favored the fortunate, and only by occasion took into account talent or one’s undying devotion. I was far too aloof to meaningfully convert this experience into anything worthy of merit. A worm without silk. But I remained steadfast. Prepared and fully equipped to meet the worst.

Like a dried-up wishing well of confidence, I knew better than to entrust in myself a good result. The modern man’s paradox. While successful for some, proved to be a never-ending source of frustration for many of the rest.

Forever racing against the clock. Days began to grow tedious. Repeatedly following the same grueling routine: wake up begrudgingly woken from a quicksand sleep, hung over and apathetic, with eyes crusted over from a bong hit before scrambling out the door. Skipping breakfast in favor of scalding hot coffee to soothe my throat between bouts of dry heaving from drags of my cigarette. Sometimes pulling over on the drive to puke in the street gutter to show up early, or what Coach Price deemed “on time”, still stuck between half-stoned and half-asleep to begin the day as high as possible until grounded again.

Every chance to prove myself came and went until the Regional Open was only a staggering couple days away. Still in the predawn of my decision to compete and place myself on a performance scale, I was resigned to the inevitable. Even if relegated to a class well below that of my seasoned peers.

That was the vision of the world I so desperately clung onto. Where a provocateur’s hard work finally paid off. Where ugly outcompeted the beautiful. Forever estranged from the commonplace, I furiously inked up the margins in refutation of every aspect of showmanship. Favoring personal growth, proficiency for me lay in nondescript distinctions between slightly better, still the same, or not worse. Only this awkward transition did little for my strained relationship with Coach Price. Bound to convention, he hammered out my unique carving on the slopes with a style-guide of what not to do.

The little hope in me all but deteriorated. In action: being a lit dud. Nearly always blown up with despair.

Between Coach Price’s uncompromising expectations, continual disinterest, short answers and blunt feedback, we seemingly shared this sentiment. Nothing remained for me to say. What was lacking came solely from me and there was little use channeling faith into something so hopeless. Even despite sanctioning my unorthodox inception in the wake of a freak win, he had cast his roll on the worst bet.

Anxiety gnawed upon my spinal cord each passing day. The dreaded unknown from having finally competed was nerve wracking enough despite the sum total of my blood, sweat, and tears, packed into countless training hours. I represented the program now. Somehow defined by every fleeting whim and desire which subjected me to realize this dream. A fresh fallen sheet had been laid bare to where my chance for a rewrite was held in the balance of a tenuous moment. Likewise, my performance devolved in anticipation of the upcoming event. Nothing could displace the sour pit in my stomach. A sickly, bleeding ulcer which flared up throughout Coach Price’s rambling talks or whenever it came to my run. Sticking around as comfortably as a rock inside my boot. This unrelenting sensation persisted. Being unable to slip a finger in and relieve it so I turned to meditative means, like chain-smoking cigarettes off-piste to feed the growing canker sore inside my mouth.

One trade off to our hectic schedules was a boost in team morale that lifted even the most downtrodden of spirits as we shrugged off the slopes for another day, and there was no longer a single insult or grimace aimed my direction. Ever since our return there was a new dynamic amongst the team. Instead of the snide comments and jeers I would typically receive they acknowledged my presence as something other than a scourge upon their very existence. With some even treating me with what could be considered kindness. By and by, as preconceptions were set aside, we garnered a basic appreciation of each other and I gradually gained their acceptance. With or without knowing what I did for Drake, they now regarded me with an unspoken respect and even treated me as their familiar, if not leave me alone altogether. Which was equally fine by me. There would always be that glaring disconnect between their shared uniformity and my tendency to deviate. But the most welcoming improvement turned out to be my budding bond with Drake. To my surprise, our alliance carried over despite our past grievances. All the former bitterness turned out to be nothing more than well-intended jabs and good-natured ribbing. For how much I couldn’t stand many people with each passing relationship in life, I’ve come to realize how little I knew about me. I’ve often learned the most from these unassuming encounters. That, and Drake no longer felt like an opponent as I was competing with my biggest opponent. Myself.

Winnowing whatever I could from the gradual failures and defeat, my runs may have slightly improved. But never fast enough. Cold and flamed out, my only desire was a return to my linen-covered resting spot each subsequent night for some rest.

Having survived every come down in the past, I was bound to fall yet again. And from far greater heights.

© 2025 [R-Complex Press]

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