Apr 272011
Authors: Lucas Dean Fišer

Editor’s Note: These are the first 13 installments of a 14-week fiction series titled “I Can’t Believe We Only Have Tomorrow” that will run weekly in the Verve section.
Chapter 1: This world feels like a movie

We walk to the bottom of the beach holding hands. I decide to take my gloves off so I can feel her skin. We don’t look at each other. We just feel each other there, her breath – my breath, the color of her jacket and my jacket in the corner of each other’s eyes. We listen to the waves and follow the footprints left behind from the seagulls. Beach wood lay all around us –– splintered and sparkling from the peaking sun. I’m wearing a blue jacket and black jeans and my shoes –– leather lace-ups. The soles of my lace-ups barely sink into the sand because it had frozen the night before. I look at my watch and notice I have cuts around my knuckles and on top of my hand. This almost scares me because I don’t know how it happened, but the screech of a diving seagull, white, with marks of gray and with motionless wings takes me from the question: ‘How did I get these cuts?’

On the drive to the beach I saw a sign with Jesus that read, “Jan. 29: Let Jesus save you,” he is smiling and his arms are wide and the background of the sign is white, almost blue, trying to be blue, or heaven, or something — the color of peace. The sign is cracked from the weather and the salt of the ocean, and I can’t get the picture out of my mind.

I wonder if I could ever meet Jesus and how he felt about my father, if he even did feel about my father. I also think about how I would try to subtly tell Jesus to get a haircut when I meet him without really saying, ‘Jesus, get a haircut, your ends are totally split.’

The sign is torn in the top right corner, and the material flaps in the wind. My memory looks like a photograph in my head. Like an 8X12. With an old, curled corner, there are my hands on the steering wheel, packed inside of gloves.
There is the dirty windshield, splattered bugs and winter stains. There is the dashboard, dusty, and the trees, green and taller than everything. And there is the sign, smiling –– hair, tot-al-ly too long.

Me and Diane sit down on a log we wander toward we are both smoking, almost in unison. Seagulls fly above us, I wonder if they are vegetarians or just waiting for our hearts to stop and our faces to hit the sand. She tells me Leo is gone on one of his last business trips. She says even though the trip doesn’t really matter in terms of the world and money and people, it matters to him. Diane’s new haircut is short and she describes it as daring. When I tell her I like it, she looks to the frozen sand near our feet, touching the strands next to her eye lightly.

“What was it like to grow up here?” She says, “You know, before everything with your father.”

“He loved the beach. I remember one year he bought me a kite —like a dragon kite, it —” I say but stop, feeling nervous, then, “you know you’re the only one I can talk to about my father,” I say looking at the side of her face. I don’t want to look at her. Ash falls from the end of her cigarette, dirtying the maroon lapel on her jacket.

“You know what he did wasn’t your fault…Jude.”


“I would have had it no different.”

She kisses my neck and I grab the side of her cheek.

“When does Leo get back?”

“Sometime tonight.”

It’s freezing outside, the wind wraps itself around our hands and joints and eyes and toes and hurts, cutting through the denim of our jeans. I glance to my car in the parking lot and notice I left my coffee on the roof of the car, fighting the wind.

Diane continues to talk to me, and I can barely hear her over the wind. Seagulls float above us. I’m rubbing the cuts on my knuckles, Diane’s mouth moves next to the side of my face, and I begin to hear symphonies in the wind, like a cello or violin, all in the wind. Finally I catch the tail end of a sentence that says:
“…do you think you are like him…like in terms of how sensitive he was…”

No answer, only wind.

I take two mental notes: One, Diane’s voice should most definitely be used on radio and two, I’m noticing dead birds –– more dead birds than usual, bones and wings and hollowness.

“What do you see when you close your eyes” she says, adjusting her position on the log, “like when you close an eye and push on it. I see spots.” She says pushing her eye.

I push my eye and she laughs grabbing for my fingers and says no, like this and she pushes a finger into the corner of my eye, lightly.

I smile enough to show my teeth, and I can feel her grin too. The sky is gray and on top of us. The log is damp, and I think about how I have always wanted wood floors in my house that are the same dark, deep-brown color.

“I see blue spots at the top of my eye, they fire off unaware of time or themselves, and they exist and then they evaporate.”

“What else do you see?”

“I see hints of yellow on the bottom of my eye. Doing the same thing, just not as obvious, they disappear a lot quicker.” She drops her finger from my eye and says that those dots are what she sees too. And then she asks, “What do you think they mean, what do you think they are?” I don’t answer because I’m still feeling her, like the dots in my eyes.

“Your eye looks swollen now,” she laughs and drops her head back, giggling quietly. Seagulls float above us, lusting over the tops of our heads.

We pause. I’m still thinking about Jesus and his hair and my father and the ash that fell onto Diane’s lapel. The wind is still shaking her hair and it looks alive, she is wearing maroon and sitting cross-legged on a fossilized log, next to me, poking me in the eye and she is alive.

“This world feels too much like a movie,” she says, “like how can they expect us all to believe we are going to die next week. The f***ing president is even saying goodbye.”

I’m barely listening.

“I don’t want to think about it. This whole moon killing us idea — I don’t want to think about it.” She kisses my neck and grabs both of my hands.

“Do you think it is going to hurt?” I ask.


“I think it’s going to exist and then just evaporate.”

“I can’t believe you’re not scared. I barely believe you.”

“We’re going to be together and then poof, all together we’re not, I’ll die loving you.”

Seagulls screech, the ocean roars, Jesus stands with his arms wide, she wears maroon –– I wear blue, I see the president saying goodbye, and I’m still alive for now. I’m wondering how long until Leo is home calling for Diane. Asking where she is, like it matters where any of us are. I glance over to my car; the coffee cup is still on my roof, fighting the wind.
Chapter 2: Accents in English, Accents in Japanese

It is this awful brown color that no one has ever really liked. I liked it, at one point.

The water is running in front of me and heat from the sink is filling my face with fog. The brown wall needs to be painted. I’m watching the reporter on television in front of me, in front of the sink.

I’m washing pizza off of dishes.

My hands are thick with soap and wrinkles and water.

My eyes follow the face of the reporter, she is small. I can tell by how short the length is from her jaw to her ears, from her ears to her forehead — small. She looks like Diane.

Maybe, kind of, I’m dehydrated and just watched seagulls all afternoon maybe that’s why I’m thinking –– reporter you look like Diane. Not quite the fox. But those lips, your hair is daringly cut.

I shut the water off with my wrinkled hands, mumbling something to myself that my father use to say to me, “you can, you will” I keep repeating it, mulling it around in my mouth like candy, feeling the flavor of the Y of the C of the W. My father’s picture sits on a shelf in the room next to the TV with the reporter who looks like Diane but only because I’m dehydrated.

There are two voicemails; the first is left by Jan. The voicemail box is black. It breathes with white noise when it’s played, twisting the strings of the tape inside. Jan asks if I would like to go to a party at her house tomorrow night, the theme is, “I’m thinking Mod-Pirate-meets 18th century Spanish Victorian Fabio for the boys, and Angelina Jolie lips-meets high school virgin turned slut-Post 1980s yellow for the girls. So whoever wins gets like this amazing bottle of champagne I bought in Zurich last year –– like totally amazing. Oh, and you better f***ing come, no excuses, Love!” She says and then hangs up.

The second is from Leo, he is telling me that I better come to Jan’s party tomorrow night also because I never get out and he wants to see me and because he is flying back from Japan- choudoh ima. In the background I can hear people speaking Japanese and glasses are clinking. I picture him standing in the first class lobby of some Japanese jumbo jet, miles off the American coast. A room of Japanese business professionals, tuxedoes, black hair, accents in English accents in Japanese. I see sake, I’m not sure if that even is a Japanese drink but it must be—sake, I think, drinking sake. And I’m thinking Leo probably has two Japanese hookers, big lips, hanging on his arm with that stupid mermaid tattoo that everyone thinks is so handsome, his tie, untied. I love Diane, Diane loves me.

“But anyway man, we have to meet Juarez on Tuesday still, I’m thinking we should make our weaponry something of a sophistication this time, like hollow bullets no more of that bazooka bullshit, let’s make things messy but professional. Also, I hope you saw the latest report put out by the president. Not everyone is going to die in this moon catastrophe, so we will see. And Diane and I are picking you up outside your place tomorrow at nine. Please look nice, sayonara.”

He hangs up. His voice sounds different, probably cracked from the sake and Japanese pollution. I have four guns laid out on the table next to the television set. Outside my living room window fog hangs on to the sides of the buildings; the skyline; like a pack of mosquitoes in search of blood. I feel tempted to call Diane but I don’t. I get online and begin to order a gallon of Bombay Crystal Blue paint from HGTV.com.
Chapter 3: The most influential flavor combination

The HGTV website keeps talking about how blue bedrooms could become the next trend.

It says, “Blue is all about creating a personal space that expresses your innermost blue desires –– ocean breezes, paradise skies. For many of us, that means a retreat in which we can relax and rejuvenate, and what a better place than in your home.”

This line sells it to me because before it is talking about how greens and browns are totally in and I’m thinking, yeah totally, and I’m rambling off this list of people I know with brown walls including, currently, myself. And I almost lose my breath for feeling so typical or something like that. So I click “order.”

Next to me my guns are sitting on a piece of “classic” miracle cloth. I use the “classic” cloth instead of the “professional” because the “classic,” which I live by, is more focused on wiping stainless steel or nickel-based barrel guns.

That is important because I typically only use handguns with a stainless steel finish.

The “professional” is mostly based on polishing and protecting the life and look of wood stocks, which are typically for rifles, which I don’t have and truly refuse to own, they are cumbersome.

So I clean my guns and I watch the moon stare down at the world, mocking us with death and I’m thinking you can’t hurt me.

I raise my p99 with its nickel-based barrel toward the moon, through the window and I’m thinking about which crater I would consider the eye. It’s shining and I’m smaller than I really think.

I shut the television off ,and I’m going to sleep thinking about Jan. 29, Diane’s maroon lapel, Jesus and how dehydrated I still feel.

The last time I went on vacation with my father we went to Mexico; I was 18 and had recently lost my virginity to some girl Leo had introduced to me at a Pixies concert.

My father got us into an exotic bungalow almost on top of the ocean. Its floors were tiled with some type of corky French-inspired design that looked like gravel roads.

He said he was there because he needed a break from business in Boston where he had just sold a handful of knives that were so ahead of their time that the buyers thought they had come from a different planet.

“Think about a knife that is so beautiful it out-styles the modern Mercedes but cuts so sweet it lets us feel how we can find peace in war.”

He said they basically sold themselves, but because they were so progressive it just tired him out. My mother stayed home claiming the sun would ruin her hair, “The sun will ruin my hair,” she said from our sofa watching “All my Children.”

So there we were in Mexico on this beach: I remember eating almost 10 packs of Chiclets a day while drinking Pacificos because the combined flavor was really an influential flavor in the art scene of New York and I had just read about the combination a couple weeks before while reading a GQ with Heath Ledger on the cover.

The magazine said that the flavor was blowing all of the other four senses out of the water –– flavor is creativity they said.

I remember staring at magazines, comparing myself to models and thinking about how attractive the armless waitress was as she served drinks on the beach to tourists in lounge chairs. My mother called twice, once to ask where the powdered milk was and tell us the cat threw up pieces of grass on the couch.
Chapter 4: We are so different, both you and me

In Mexico my father took me out to six dinners when he wasn’t too busy impressing our maid.

One dinner I specifically can recall. We were surrounded by French Canadians and we sat next to a painting of some Mexican mountains that I didn’t think was very attractive to look at, but the way the glass shined and how it was placed in the restaurant I could tell it was a prized work of art.

My father used it as a mirror while we waited for our appetizers. He stared into the glass, which was right next to our table and shaved the hair off of his chin and neck and cheeks with his knife like some sort of Davey Crockett.

Everyone around us was glaring, but I kept my eyes peeled to the Pacifico beer in front of me and tried not to notice.

“You see these scratches on my wrist?” he asked with his chin in the air, knife peeling at his neck, hair falling onto the empty plate in front of him.

“These scratches, not a clue where they came from.”

“Maybe the maid you’re ––“

“Don’t,” he said with loud exaggeration, “talk about her like that.”

“Like what!?” I said taking my eyes from the beer. French faces stared. Pale French Canadian faces –– unshaved eyebrows.


He used his knife as a finger to point at me, shaking his head.

“What I’m trying to say, Jude,” looking down at his facial hair clinging to the white plate, “is that we are different, you and me.”

The ceilings of the restaurant –– curved and adobe. The servers all wore red and green and ridiculous smiles, some handsome.

My father then noticing something in the French faces that were staring at him and his reckless knife caused him to take a long pause.

He adjusted, moved his collar closer to his neck. Pocketed his knife, then looked right into my eyes and said, “I love that shirt. Did your mother and I buy that for you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “All I can really think about right now is how dangerous you are with that knife.”

“We are different, Jude, you know, than most people.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, fingering the Chiclets in my pocket.

“These cuts, here,” he sighed, then paused looking at his knuckles, “Do you ever just feel vicious like your craziness is malleable or something.”

“Like dementia-grandpa-only-speaking-Slavic-crazy?” I asked somehow becoming interested.

“No, Jesus, son –– think.” He looked away, noticed an attractive waitress holding enchiladas and martinis. His lips –– pursed.

“Do you ever just feel like watching someone die? You know –– besides on TV. Like in front of you, son.”

“I don’t think I could ever fight a war.” I said peeling at the Pacifico label. He shoveled chips and salsa into his mouth and watched more waitresses.

“You don’t know me, son. But I do what I do to take care of you. ”

“I know, Dad.”

“You can—“

“You will.” I said interrupting him, “How long until you stop saying this?”

I went to bed listening to my father grunt over the housemaid. We left four days later.
Chapter 5: The moon and dinosaurs; Kenny G’s hair

When Leo came to my door it was Monday around 6:38 p.m. I wasn’t dressed.

I had a cigarette in my mouth, and I noticed he was wearing the Spanish watch my mother had bought him a few years before she died. I told him I was glad to see him still wearing his watch and he said, yes, yeah it’s important to me, Jude, believe it or not. He waved his hand in front of his face a few times to get the smoke from my cigarette out of his eye. I picked up a few clothes off the floor trying to decide what to wear.

“Have you seen the news lately, f***ing fire everywhere, glass on the streets, I’m locking my doors –– They are starting to say that not everyone will die,” he says, nodding his head.

Yeah, no I mean I haven’t seen the news. Should I wear a tie?

We are adults now,he says picking at his nails. I toss my cigarette into the sink after pulling on a pair of brown pants.

“Those look nice.” He points at my pants, “Can you tell what I did with my hair?”

“It looks a little stiff, sure,” I say. “Where is Diane?”

“In the car, she didn’t want to come up.”


“Because you smoke and your place is a f***ing disaster.”

“She f***ing smo—-“

“What?” he says. “She doesn’t smoke if that’s what you meant to say, not for years, you know that. But can we go already.”

“Red or blue tie?” I say holding each to my chest.

“Red,” he’s resting his body against the doorway, “Are you going to do anything with your life this last week here Jude, or just die in this hole?”

“I’m thinking just die in this hole,” I say staring at his stiff hair. He frowns, walks toward me and runs his hand through his slicked back hair correcting my tie he mumbles something about the creases and the material.

His car is expensive and German or Swedish or something.

When I shut the door he tells me not to slam it so hard and then mutters something to Diane. The streets are loud and the sidewalks are stained with salt and bird feathers are everywhere.

Diane doesn’t look at me. She is sitting up front listening to Kenny G. She wears a gray fur muffler and a darker gray pea coat. Her earrings are gold, and they begin to talk about the business trip that Leo just got back from.

I try not to listen because she is rubbing her hands along his arm. She rubs her thumb back and forth between his watch and sleeve.

It makes the hair on my neck stand up. I light a cigarette in the back seat and roll my window down.

Outside people are moving furniture out of their apartments. There are clothes, love seats, bar stools, lamps and children all standing together.

Diane spots a rug that she finds attractive and tells us that she would love a red one like that in her bathroom and Leo looks at her and smiles.
Chapter 6: Talking about God and fire

(Still in the car on the way to the party)

Leo and Diane don’t notice that I’m smoking for almost 20 seconds. I think the only thing that tells them that I am is the cold from the open window. Leo freaks out, almost hitting a yellow fire hydrant and tells me to put the “shit” out.

I practically ash in my lap on my brown pants before managing to get two more pulls off of it before I toss it out the window. While I am doing this he is reaching around in his seat like I’m some misfit child chewing daddy’s expensive car leather. I look to Leo’s rearview mirror grinning and I see Diane grinning too.

“Jude, Can we just be polite adults before we get to this party? I should have never freaking picked you up.” He says this while looking out the window and pulling his hand away from Diane’s.

“Yes Daddy,” I say still smirking at Diane.

The rest of the car ride consists of Leo continuing his story about a Japanese drink he had at some high-end bar in Tokyo with his business partners.
“… It had this lemon, well not lemon, but citrus, like sparkling flavor, yet it smelled like cardboard .…”

Outside people are moving and adjusting. Trying to take everything they own to somewhere safe. I think about how they will probably die in the imminent, fiery moon crash that is going to kill us like the dinosaurs.

I stare out the window thinking about Diane and the red rug and the feel of our hands on the beach and how her voice sounded telling me she loved me and Kenny G’s hair and how everyone will talk to me at the party and the dead seagulls and the color of peace. Stores still have open signs flashing in blues and yellows and reds.

Women are wearing dresses and men are wearing coats and silver watches walking to their cars, walking into restaurants and bars. Trashcans are burning and smoke is filling up all the faces.

I see a family sitting on the couches they have moved out of their apartment. I glance towards the 7-11, looking at billboards that say stuff about the moon and destruction and God and fire, insurance and bomb shelters.

I open up my cell phone, shuffling through old text messages from Diane into the tools folder then into the calendar and notice there is only a few more days until everything’s ending.

Then the thought about killing Leo crosses my mind.
Chapter 7: The flames in the sky

Her hair is wet from the ocean. It falls toward the corner of her face, attracted to her left eye like a magnet.

The water is dripping down the ridges of her skin, curving at the points of her cheekbone and chinbone; I see dimples filling like an empty well. Her eyes remind me of something that I can’t quite put my finger on. Like a future or a past I’m completely unaware of.

The blanket is wrapped tightly around her and it’s green. The sand is cold beneath us as we sit with our backs against a log.

The ocean is rolling in and rolling out.

It’s the only sound between us, and I try not to look at her. In my head I know what she looks like but because she is next to me and I’m not looking at her, she is foreign and I am dark enough not to be there or here.

I am naked and shivering.

I am a color, I am for sale and I am obtainable for no price. The sky explodes and I cry, the sky explodes and we watch it like a sunset.
I tell her that I feel like I’ve seen this before.

She says we are nothing but animals, and I say this is our bed. I can’t see my face because I am only a color and the sky turns into mush. I point at it like it is food on my plate.

She begins to grip me, knowing the sky is going to hurt; I withdraw and then grip back. She is asking me questions that I can’t hear because the sky is screaming and the birds above us are dropping from the sky, all around us.

Flames are touching the clouds, flames are touching the ocean and rushing toward us. Fog is coming out of our mouths as we breathe.

The sky becomes enveloped in madness, I’m still crying and when I glance toward her and just before we are gone she says: “We wore cowboy hats once before,” she says. “And we will wear moon boots next.”

The sound of Leo slamming the car door startles me, Diane tells me to come inside — we are at the party.
Chapter 8: They all laugh around a table of glass

Everyone is laughing and all I see are faces with hair pulled back.

Lots of yellow and green, someone mentioning the amount of feathers that have found their way into their apartment, and someone else mentions how sad it is that all the greyhounds are never going to be rescued and how all the children in Africa are going to die with flies on their faces.

The table we all sit at is long and the top is made of glass.

I can see my fingerprints in it and Jan’s face is still red from crying because she burnt the rice. There is Jan, Ben, Diane, Leo, Robert, some guy named Calvin and Ellcy.
Ellcy keeps staring at me and I know what she is thinking. I barely eat because I’m not hungry and keep asking for people to hand me the champagne. The television is on in the other room and I can hear reporters chatting in this very charming tone about how there are only two days left before the moon thing.

“You changed your name?” says Jan, voice cracking from her earlier crying episode.
The room pauses.

“Fox, yeah, to Fox,” I say. Diane gets nervous when this question is asked. She glances at everyone and then goes back to eating, the room follows.

“Spicy.” Giggles Ellcy, nose in her glass, drinking champagne.

Only three people dress up for the theme of the party, the guy named Calvin, Ellcy and Jan. Jan is wearing this shirt that looks like it was cut out from a table cloth, it’s baggy but appealing and keeps people wondering what’s underneath.

Her tights are yellow and the lipstick she wears is overdone and when I mention this she says, “I was like going for Jolie, the theme, Jude.”

Ellcy is wearing red lipstick as well, but because she actually has lips it looks good, and the shirt she is wearing is even more revealing than Jans because I can see her shoulders and cleavage and it makes me think about how she used to look naked, and how she screamed my name so loud it finally became a turnoff, and how I hurt her, and how the last time I saw her was at the Coldplay concert two years ago.

“Didn’t your dad, kill people?” Jan says, knowing the answer. I hear Ben pipe in with a “yeah.” I notice he looks just like a Johnny Depp pirate and I mention this too him.

Diane looks at me and so does Ellcy with these wide eye expressions; I can see the food in Diane’s mouth so I gesture for her to chew.


“Yes, Jan.” I say dropping my fork. My throat feels lose and so do my hands, I have a napkin on my lap and I’m thanking God or Jesus or whoever it may be that I’ m drunk.

Leo looks at me, the whole room is quiet but alert and I can see him shaking his head.

“He was into that whole thing, yeah.”

“What does that mean, ‘the whole thing’?”

“The whole, killing thing.” I say, Leo know has his head in his hands, I can’t tell if he is crying. Diane, who is sitting next to Jan has now placed her hand on Jan’s shoulder like it’s a piece to a really hot oven.

Diane pipes up and says, “His father made a few mistakes, this doesn’t make Jude a criminal, Jude is not his father.” She says. I feel like crawling across the table right then and making love to her.

“I’m just saying, your dad was like a 60 minutes cover boy last decade.” Jan says, her eyes just as red as her hair.


Chapter 9: The checklist in my pocket

The room begins to settle and Leo, whose face is still in his hands, finally lifts his eyes to me and he is furious. Right then I notice that Leo’s hair really is a little different and it looks good because for some reason it makes his jaw-line more obvious.

“Now that you mention it your hair is a little different Leo, really works well with that jaw-line.” I think he is crying so I pour another glass of champagne.

I look at my wrists and knuckles and notice that my hand is completely cut up, it looks worse than the other day, cuts in different places, different shapes and I’ m trying to recall if I actually punched any glass and I can’t think of anything.

It doesn’t bother me this time. I start picking at the scabs and I’m wiping at what I peel off with the napkin in my lap.

Leo’s face is bothering me so I get out of my chair and tell the table, which has now moved on to a conversation about the president’s make-up artist, that I need to go to the bathroom.

Ellcy smiles and says ok, just come back.

In the bathroom I notice I have a note in my pocket. It’s on white lined paper and it says three things:

1) Meet Juarez at Profit and 62nd. Doomsday 48 hours.

2) Wood floor install January 26th 2 p.m.

3) Check trust fund #824-56-1223-2900-1. Then the sentence, “Maybe kill Leo.”

While I’ m reading this I forget I’m peeing and it’s hitting the trashcan and the side of the sink and I’m laughing and even though I notice I’m completely missing the toilet I keep peeing everywhere.

Outside I hear, “…It’s not bullshit, it’s our atmosphere, birds are dying … the president’s make-up was smearing when he cried…”

The next morning I notice I have text messages from Diane and Ellcy. Ellcy sent me a picture message that I don’t bother to open up.

Diane tells me she is upset and needs me, then apologizes for the dinner and the crying episode that I later had that night –– like it was her fault or something. I don’t remember this, but she said I smelled like pee and babbled something about my father and how much I hate Leo and this scared everyone at the party.

I imagine my face being red and my mouth opening and closing in this really strained posture and spit sticking to my upper lip and lower lip and swelling.

I’m checking my trust fund and notice I still have a few thousand dollars. It had been months since I checked it and I feel vulnerable in some way. The cigarette I am smoking is almost out and I keep glancing to the end of it after each puff.
Chapter 10: The Pictures

In the middle of my text back to Diane I see a little girl across the street holding balloons.

I’m thinking about how innocent she looks in her navy blue sailor outfit. Men and women are walking all around me. Some look frantic and some look like they just don’t care.

Their eyes are big and gray like the moon. Feathers are all over the street and they are sticking to the bottoms of my boots. The balloons the girl was holding are now flying away into the sky and she is crying and her mother is rubbing her back, probably telling her it is ok. They are swirling past the trees and brick buildings. They are red and the sun is hitting them so hard that I have to pain myself to look at them.

I have to pain myself to say there is something in these balloons I need to see. I hear traffic passing, I feel people passing, but I’m so focused on these balloons, which have now just turned into mere objects of the sky that everything has become a whisper.

I look back down toward where the little girl was in the sailor’s outfit and she is gone. But now I see Leo walking towards me and this startles me in an unsympathetic way. I feel the gun in the front of my pants; it rests on my belt buckle. He is wearing a suit and his hair is slicked back, he is holding a black leather bag.

“Who is that on the phone,” he says, gesturing to my hand. I realize my phone is still out and wasps of smoke are still falling from the tip of my cigarette. I fumble and put the phone in my pocket.


“Did I say I hated you last night?”

“You were drunk. How does my hair look?” he says, pulling feathers off the bottoms of his shoes, looks to the apartment we are standing in front of, “ Juarez is inside.” He then checks his nails, glances back to me, “You look like shit.”

The refrigerator is full of pictures.

I can barely even see the white of the door. Each picture is the same exact size and all the girls are sitting in the same white chair in front of the same green wall with the same stern faces.

Shoulders back, arms crossed heads forward, blond hair, black hair, red hair, and one girl –– green hair. They all appear to be from the ages of nine to 14. Skinny, young, and their faces –– deserted. Makeup is stretched from ear to ear, and they are wearing jewelry and slips that hug their young featureless bodies.

Juarez is probably 60 years old but I feel like he has had a face-lift. He wears a denim button up and darker denim pants. His hands are awkwardly small and he uses them to itch at his ears in between sentences.

He stands next to me, telling me these are his girls, all of them his girls, and I’m noticing how his eyebrows are plucked, femininely arching, perfectly in response to his nose, in response to his brow. Leo is in the bathroom. Juarez is now saying Angela this, Sabrina that, Sofia here, Christina, he giggles, Christina there.

“Your father had the pleasure of meeting some of these girls,” he says resting his hand on my shoulder gesturing to the pictures on the refrigerator like we are on top of a cliff overlooking the depths of a colorful canyon.

His hand moves in a sweeping motion across the pictures, he thrusts his chest forward, proud.

I look away to the windows and hear Leo shuffling out of the background. The only way I can describe the room I’m in is –– groggy.

The carpet is a deep blue that has been run through with a vacuum recently. The walls are empty and white but hold a musky yellow tone. I force myself away from Juarez’s hand.

Leo is now unpacking a suitcase full of weapons and ammunition and I begin to hear Juarez giggling about this, the sounds of weapons hitting his coffee table. Leo begins his speech about how these weapons are the latest and greatest. And how this whole end of the world thing, which I’m really starting to think he doesn’t believe in, is raising the prices of these weapons drastically.

“…You know for those who believe in the whole last man on earth thing…”

Chapter 11: I couldn’t stop thinking of the text

Leo begins listing off prices in the tens of thousands, Juarez is still giggling.
In the room near the refrigerator I can hear feet moving and hands touching the wall, muffled attempts of sound. I can tell Leo is hearing this too because he flinches and withdraws from his speech with each stir. Juarez acts like it doesn’t exist. He is smiling and twitching and his eyebrows are beginning to get to me.

“These,” he says pointing guns, “are important to me, Jude.”

Leo is cleaning his nails completely ignoring everything, and I’m thinking, “how very business.”

“Your father was a great man he did what was right for him in this world. I can relate to your father,” he says.

I’m feeling a big speech in the way his pear shaped hands are moving and his chest is bulging at the buttons of his denim. Leo is using a .45 caliber bullet to clean his nails now. The room next to the refrigerator is getting louder.

The muffles are turning into moans and Leo starts to give me a stare that I recognize from when we were children growing up together. Juarez is rambling about the differences and similarities between my father and him, and I’ m thinking about how I don’t ever want to have to do business with this man again. Groans and claws and moans are beginning to push through the wall, louder.

“…You see he was a family man, young when I knew him, proud of you, Jude, but I’ve never been a family man…” He continues, eyebrows –– dancing. Leo rises from his chair with a rifle in his hand.

“Shut the f*** up, Juarez, who is in that room?” he says, hands gripping the rifle, I step back, almost enjoying the intensity spilling out of Leo’s mouth. I receive a text message from Diane that I glance at, “I can’t believe we only have tomorrow.” Leo staring at Juarez, Juarez staring at Leo.

Upset that Leo interrupts him, he says, “Control him, what is my business is mine.”
He is now staring directly into my face exaggerating a new lack of acknowledgment for Leo. Leo pushes his hair back while taking a hand off of the rifle as though he is feeling the temperature of his own furious head. He looks like he is about to cry.

“This transaction has to do with the both of us you scumbag. You f***ing tell me who is in there.” Juarez stands unaffected and begins with his speech again. I’m smirking because Leo said scumbag.

Juarez begins to speak, “As I was saying before ––’’ Leo interrupts him by moving toward the bedroom. Juarez tries to go after Leo, but I hold him back giving him a bear hug, his chest folds around my arms and he struggles and I’m noticing how soft the denim is and I’m trying to place the brand and I’m also smelling his hair and it’s definitely some type of raspberry shampoo.

“I can’t believe we only have tomorrow,” is being tossed around in my head.

The noises in the room are growing louder and uncontrollable, the walls are being hit harder and moans are turning into roars. Leo steps towards the door with his rifle drawn in front of him and he is tiptoeing anticipating violence or explanations. Juarez is screaming no you mother f***** and I’m just letting Leo run the show.

Chapter 12: Outside my window is complete chaos

Juarez is panting hard as I’m holding him.

Leo is looking back at us, to the door, then back at us, and I still think Leo might be crying. Juarez is becoming harder to hold, and I’m now realizing Juarez’s shirt is definitely Banana Republic.

My phone rings and everyone shifts to its sound.

It’s Diane, I know it’s Diane.

This makes me grip Juarez tighter because I know Diane needs me, and I’m thinking about how she stood up for me the other night and how I wanted to love her so badly right then and there. I’m thinking of her maroon lapel and her lips wrapped around a cigarette and her short hair and the way she says my name and the ocean and the dots in our eyes. I can’t believe we only have tomorrow.

Juarez is now biting at my arm. Leo is so close to the door that he is shaking the knob. As he stands back to kick the door open, the room is roaring and someone seems to be kicking the walls, bouncing off the walls, the whole apartment seems to be shaking. I’m gripping Juarez by the back of the head, pulling at his hair. His eyebrows arched, and I’m whispering relax you raspberry-smelling mother f––––.


There is a drink in my hand.

The ice is clicking against the glass.

Diane’s head is in my lap and she is crying.

I have cuts all over my arms and occasionally, I’m picking at the scabs. On the news there is a bearded philosopher talking about how the moon’s collision with earth is imminent.

He is saying that it is only six hours away.

He is saying that not everyone will die due to speed and velocity and gravity. He is saying goodbye.

He has feathers in his hair. Gray with small hints of white.

I’m drinking very large sips and realizing it’s vodka.

Diane is making my jeans damp, and I’m brushing her hair in between sobs. She keeps mumbling something about her abortion and how she did it for us, and I can barely even listen because all I’m thinking about is what happened at Juarez’s apartment last night.

Outside my window is complete chaos. Fires burning everywhere, feathers are floating like a fog in the air and the streets are red. I begin to interrupt Diane by saying I had to do it.

Chapter 13: The Feelings Inside

I’m thinking about the night before: Red hair and a slip. A girl sitting in a white chair, legs and arms are spread apart by chains, Juarez going completely crazy in my arms yelling, “No you bastards!”

The feeling of indifference that falls across me.

Leo sobbing, dropping his weapon, running toward the girl and wading through the sea of condoms on the floor. He is knocking over the video cameras that are capturing four different angles of the chained-up girl.

He is screaming, “She is a child, oh my god, oh my god.”

The girl’s face limp in Leo’s hands but still screaming.

Me, still bear hugging Juarez and Leo running toward me. The feeling of how much I hate Leo rising in my chest. The feeling of how much I hate Juarez in my chest.

I pull the gun out of my belt and fire a round into Juarez’s shoulder. He falls, crying, Leo running toward Juarez kicking him with his black boots.

I’m staring at the girl who has yet to raise her head. Her cries gagged by a red bandanna. Me, staring at Leo, his eyes flat with hate. Juarez, gasping for air on the ground behind us, turning on the floor in desperation, the girl crying, blood on the blue of his carpet.

Leo crying and staring at me picking up the rifle with one hand saying, “This is what your father did to me,” pointing at the young girl.

I’m standing motionless over Juarez, his blood pooling at my feet.

The walls around us, still white. The world outside, still dying.

Leo drops to his knees, the commotion settles around the girl’s sobs and Juarez’s moans.

Leo pulls his gun to his shoulder, sights in his face and says, “I should have done this long ago.”

His first shot is a miss, and I’m giggling calling him a scumbag thinking I can’t believe we only have tomorrow.

I pull my .45 toward his head and he is gasping frantically noticing his rifle is jammed. I take two steps toward him, watching the girl watching us in the background in horror.

My knuckles are cut again. I’m confused as to why. Leo starts to walk toward me saying you are no different than your father.

I shoot him once in the stomach. The girl screams behind us.

I bend down toward Leo on the floor and whisper, “It’s because I love Diane,” his mouth red with blood, his eyes glassing over and his voice struggling to ask “….What…?”

On the walk home I’m pulling down posters with a picture of Mel Gibson, arms wide, and the words “Join us January 29 for a mass-suicide –– of peace,” scribbled over Gibson and around Gibson.

Staff writer Lucas Dean Fišer is a senior creative writing major. Letters and feedback can be sent to verve@collegian.com.

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