The Mailman

Cameron knew Oscar could never be happy for him, but thought he'd at least understand.

___________________

Last winter, Cameron was in a rut. Two years out of college, still living with his parents, smoking weed every day. He still smokes every day now, but he smoked every day back then and it was worse. He smoked, and then spent all day thinking. From time to time, he would have new and exciting thoughts. Not thoughts, but ideas. Ideas for portraits he would never paint, instruments he would never play. The ideas you have when you're high. The ideas that are just thoughts.

Some days he would think the same thought over and over and over again, from breakfast (2 p.m.), straight through lunch (8 p.m.), until dinner (1 a.m.). You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything. You're not doing anything.

Cameron didn't share his thoughts with others. It wasn't an unwillingness to open up, but he felt there was never enough time. If he tried to share one thought, he would have to explain the thoughts that led him there. Knowing he'd be misunderstood in the end, he would spend the whole conversation clarifying, contextualizing each breath. He would find himself explaining what it was like to think at all. He found it easier, as he found with most things, not to try. Maybe he was depressed, but that's not something he would admit until it was dealt with. 

One day, though, when things were particularly bad, Cameron confided in his mother. He told her how he was always worried, and asked if she worried like he did when she was his age. "No," she said, one hand on the steering wheel. Her other hand gestured towards his music on the car stereo, "Something else." 

They were driving to or from the grocery store. He never outgrew going to the grocery store with his mother. Even now, in his 20s, she would still let him eat a muffin from the bakery section while they shopped around. "And one muffin," she would tell the cashier at checkout.

"But then," his mother was testing the waters with a cannonball, "I had a job when I was 23." She could tell Cameron was upset about something, and she didn't want to add to that, but it had been long enough. "I really think you need to start sending out applications again, son. Maybe start paying dad and me rent."

"Can we not talk about this?" Cameron turned his music up louder, and they stopped speaking the rest of the way. When they got home from their errand, he darted past his mother unloading groceries out of the trunk, and up to his room to grab his grinder, rolling papers, and a dog leash.

"I'm taking Oscar for a walk," he announced as he hurried his family's beagle mix into his harness and out the front door.

___________________

Cameron liked to take Oscar with him to get high on the benches along the river trail behind his neighborhood. Cameron didn't have to think around Oscar, about Oscar. Oscar was comforting. He made that prolonged eye contact that dogs make, and it helped bring Cameron back down to earth when he would smoke too much. As soon as he would get worked up, Cameron would look into Oscar's endless brown eyes, everything would go silent, and they would walk home.

Cameron's bond with his dog was a particular point of pride for him. They met over a decade ago, when Cameron's parents took him to the shelter for his birthday and told him to pick a puppy. The weight of this decision knocked him to the floor. He understood what it meant for a puppy not to be picked, and he cried the whole drive there, knowing he was on his way to not pick 50 puppies. 

They met some of the puppies, played with others, and somewhere in passing Cameron and Oscar were introduced. But when it came time to pick, Cameron was still catching his breath. He ended up with a retriever of some sort, Tessie, thinking she was the only dog that his entire family might like, though none would love. She was the best solution. His father paid the desk, and they had Tessie in a harness and leash by the time Cameron changed his mind.

"Wait!" he shouted. "What about that one? I didn't get to see that one, did I? The beagle." Everything went silent.

"This guy? Oh, yeah that's Oscar, you met him. He’s a beagle mix," Kim, the lovely shelter volunteer, replied.

"No I didn't. I want him, can we have him? He's the dog that I want." Cameron thought he understood what it meant for a puppy not to be picked, but he didn't think twice about Tessie in that moment.

___________________

Cameron's mother wasted no time handing him the classifieds when he brought Oscar home, trailed by a cloud of smoke. She knew the job listings upset him, and he knew the weed smell upset her. They were each happy to play their part in this mutual upset, mother and son. It had become their evening ritual the past few months, a ceremony of sorts. 

What Cameron hated most about the classifieds was how much he enjoyed looking through them. He pictured himself as a dental hygienist, or a math tutor, or a seasonal deliveryman for a florist, and he pictured himself happy. The snow began to melt.

(to be continued?)

writing while waiting for my little pizza, if the little pizza is finished and i wanna keep going ill make a note of exactly when my pizza timer goes off, right now i have 11 mins 49 seconds left but including the time it took to type this title

 The Bake Sale was underway and Gina had one objective: a kiss from her husband.

"Hey Tyler."

"Hi Gina."

Not even a hug.

"What's been selling?"

"Brownies have been selling like hot cakes, hot cakes aren't doing so well though."

"That's surprising, hot cakes usually sell like iPads."

"Huh?"

He never understood her.

"Where do you want me?"

"Gina, what?"

"To stand, you're the head of the committee."

"You're perfect right where you are. Actually, maybe a few inches starboard."

And leave him port? Yeah right.

"I miss you at the house."

"I told you, I'd come home after the Bake Sale."

"This Bake Sale has been going on for two months."

"We're raising a lot of money!"

"Who's we?"

"The school."

"Don't you think you can only be generous to a certain point? If you keep giving and giving and giving, mightn't there be not much left to be given? And if you keep giving beyond that point, don't you fear the school resenting you?"

"I said I would stop the Bake Sale once we ran out of Bakes to Sell."

"And?"

"You keep donating them."

Actually I'm satisfied with that being the conclusion and I still have four minutes left, this was a fun quickie brain dump writing challenge. Maybe I'll do it again sometime. :)

The guest room

"Is the guest room ready?"

"Stop calling it the guest room, they're not guests."

"Yes they are. It's a bed and breakfast, we have guests."

"They're paying you to stay in our house."

"Exactly. That's what a guest is."

"I don't even want to do this, it's so stupid."

"Stupid enough to help your student loan payment."

Charlie didn't have a response, and that pissed him off so bad. His mother went back into the kitchen by the time he thought of one.

"The towels are still wet."

It's probably better that she left the room before he said that.

The McConnells arrived promptly three minutes late for their 7 o'clock check-in, and Barbara delighted in charging them the $25 late fee, but she didn't break the news to them yet. Rather, she mentally added it to their tab. She wouldn't forget. She wouldn't. (And she didn't.)

Dinner was awkward. Charlie and Barbara sat alone at a table for twelve with chairs for eight. She had made enchiladas, not great but not bad by any means.

"They're having sex."

"Charlie-"

"They are."

"I know they are." Barbara also knew they wouldn't protest if she added a $50 cleaning fee to her mental tab.

"Are they going to think it's weird that we don't have any other guests?"

"That's not ours to care about."

"Yeah, but isn't it fun to speculate?"

"Speculate?"

"What?"

"That's an awfully big word, Charlie."

Again, he had no idea how to respond to that. But he didn't need to. His mother went on, "You've always been a busybody. Since you were three. For a while, we just assumed you were gay. But then your father found your magazine..."

"What magazine?"

"Did you have more than one type of magazine in your room when you were 14?"

He felt frozen. At this point, he was beyond embarrassment, he had caught his mother in much more compromising positions than the one he figured he was technically "caught" in right now. But he just felt confused.

His mother had changed a lot since his father died. Not drastic, or at least not sudden. He wasn't sure the right word for it. He felt coldness to and from her, but he never considered it. He was too busy thinking that he was thinking about himself.

I Saw Her Hit Her

She hit her first. The blonde woman. I saw it happen, we all saw it happen. I thought it was part of the show. The dinner theater show. Well, yes, I know now that it wasn't. Obviously.

Do I look dense to you? Or stupid, or what? Like I can tell when a fight escalated.

You don't actually care what I have to says though, right? Like will it go in your report? You know I didn't call 911? I didn't want to get involved. But now I guess it's too late for that now. My boyfriend could have told you this if you didn't let him go home. That I didn't want to do this, he could have told you that I didn't want to do this. Why do I have to do this and he doesn't have to do this?

No I don't know why she hit her. I don't know them. I don't care about them really. Well, yeah I want them  both to be okay. I know it was bad. I have eyes, I could see that it was bad. It was terrible. But I thought it was part of it.

You tell me, if you saw a fight break out at a murder mystery where the actors go out into the audience and serve people dinner, what would you think? Would you think- Yes. Thank you, you would think it was part of it.

Her bracelet flew off. No the other woman. She had a bracelet on. Did anybody tell you that yet? Okay then, congratulations, it wasn't a complete waste of your time to make me stay here, just one of my time. One waste of my time.

Can I have a glass of wine while we wait here? If I have to keep waiting here I want you to buy me a glass of wine. I'm pissed, not flirting. Get over yourself. Wait, are you part of this? Are you a fucking dinner theater actor? No? Okay, show me your badge. Give it to me. Because. I want to see it! Thank you.

I do hope she's okay though. It seemed nasty. Is there like, a number I can call to check on them? Or a website? I can look up "dinner theater blonde fight dead or alive status injury arrest police" but something tells me that won't be a narrow enough search term for Google.

Can I go pee? Or leave?

Remembering My Time on 'Deal or No Deal'

I was the best Banker that damn set has ever seen.

You know Howie smokes pot between takes, right? I'm not the only one, I'm just the one without a name to hide behind. Fuck that fucking show.

I don't regret my time there, I got to put my BA in math to good use. A lot of people think that there's a room of people that come up with the Banker's offers. Wrong. It's just me, and I have to do it fast. That show is live-to-tape. Fucking penny pinching fucking network fucking.

Sometimes when I call Howie on that little landline, I would try and tell him jokes to make him laugh. And that son of a bitch never did. What does that say about me? I made that guy so much money. I bought him his third house, and he was so nasty to me. The banker's dressing room was always next to his until I got hired. I was there for a month then they made me move. I didn't think it was him I thought it was just a production thing but then they told me it was him.

I was friends with a lot of the case models, I actually set up #24 and #13 on their first blind date eight years ago. I got to speak at their wedding, it was a really beautiful night, except the rain.

I tried so hard to make Howie like me. He was so cool and he was so good at being a host. I thought we could be friends. Have our little talks on the landline. I thought we could at least have a rapport. They told me he always ate lunch out with the whole crew until right around when I started. I don't even eat lunch with the crew, but they told me he just didn't want to risk me showing up?

I'm the one who got him into pot, you know that? I don't know if it should be a brag, but it is. I got Howie Mandel into smoking marijuana on the set of Deal or No Deal. And I shit you not, the final two cases on the first episode he hosted high were #4 and #20. Seriously. I know that it sounds too good to be true, so it's on you to trust me.

Even then, he never laughed. At my jokes, he never laughed. Fuck. Why can't I stop thinking about him. Nobody has ever made me more excited and more anxious and more upset and more angry and more free.

So anyways, how tall did you say you wanted this Christmas tree?

random word generator challenge: anticipate, sigh, loyalty

Please fasten your seatbelts, the flight is about to take off.

Fine, but as soon as that light goes off I'm getting up to pee. Why did I take the window seat? I have longer legs, I should have taken the aisle so I could stretch out. It's not his fault though, I demanded it, I had to see the sun to make sure we didn't leave the planet.

I guess other planets can still see the sun, but I'm sure it would look different enough that I would notice.

He's been so sad lately, I thought I would surprise him with a quick hop skip and jump to the Caymans, but then of course his father died. Kidneys stuff. I'm not complaining about his father dying, though I guess I do wish it didn't happen, but not because of the Caymans. Because I love him. 

I love him so much. I know it doesn't sound like it but I am a very supportive partner. I can read him, and I know how to adjust like a thermostat.

Thank you, we are now at our cruising altitude and you are free to move about the cabin.

"Cruising altitude, haha, right? Right. Jordan wake up, I have to go to the bathroom. And the lady's coming with our champagne can you get that?"

How did he fall asleep so quickly we've been in the air for one second. How is there a line for the bathroom? They just let us get up, this is unacceptable.

Sometimes Jordan gets really sad, like so sad. And I can feel him breaking, and I want to help put the pieces back together, but sometimes they're sharp, and if I bleed on this new shirt I swear to god I'll kill myself.

"Excuse me, can you please hurry up in there!" *Bang* *Bang* *Bang*

I'm surrounded by fucking children. Why do I have to do all this work? His mom has been no help planning the funeral, and I'm not letting him do that. Nobody should have to plan their parent's funeral.  They should be able to go and it's perfect and they grieve and we grieve and I'm there and he doesn't need anything he just needs me if he needs me and I'm there because I'm there. So I'm making his sisters do it.

I should have told him to take the window seat when I got up if he's just going to sleep the whole time.

Turbulence.

Great, I fucking pissed myself.