Bona Fide

Today his mother told him to never go into the basement.
“Why?” he asked.
    “Because I said so,” she replied.
    “But I’m 13 years old now. I understand things. Is it toxic? Is it haunted? You can’t just say ‘never’ without an explanation.”
Long silence.
“Ask your father.”
    “For fucks sake.”
    “Jackson! I told you. Never again.”
    “Everything is never now.”
His mom quietly folded the last pair of undies. “I will always love you.”
“Love you too … is it because of the still?” he asked while demolishing the chocolate chip cookie in one satisfying bite.
“Like I said.”

~

At 5am he walked into his parents room and poked his dad’s fleshy deltoid with a broom handle.
“For FUCKS sake!” his father roared.
“Pops. I want to learn how to make corn liquor. I need a job that pays, man, so I can buy a Mac and get Promethean. I’m focused, resolute. I can clock before school, after school, weekends. I want to be your deputy. POPS! You awake?”
“Now I am. Meet me in the kitchen. Five minutes.”
Jackson ran out of the bedroom, brushed his teeth, donned the yellow hard hat his Uncle gave him for his birthday, and skipped down the hallway with bona fide momentum.

~

(to be continued)

⌘

Instead of Vengeance

Mercy! She felt better after a toke. Was it naive to be redeemed by a puff a smoke?

When he drove the beltway between Baltimore and the District of Columbia he invoked an inner mantra: Do not engage the serpent.

Her prose was a retelling of countless yesterdays. But she eventually grew tired of that approach. Nowadays she conjured voices for an infinite self. It didn’t matter if she told the truth anymore.

When he smoked weed he couldn’t read books. He could read, but he kept reading the same sentence over and over, which was annoying. So when he read, he’d sip a slow brewed dark roast instead.

She thought failure was a hoax so she removed the word from her lexicon in 1999.

He drove the distance between Maryland and Virginia countless times and he always succumbed to road rage. He couldn't shake it. He was seduced by anger and increasingly concerned. Driving was a miserable test of ego.

She appreciated an amusing page turner but she slowed down every now and again to ponder a bit of gospel.

He never liked the idea of declaring his lack of ambition. "So what do you do?" asked the barfly at the 2-for-1 happy hour in Midtown. His face wilted in reply. But if queried, "What do you obsess about?" He was fully attentive.

She used to drink red wine.

He enjoyed watching the Pittsburgh Steelers but he muted the announcers and the commercials. He didn’t talk to his family much but when he watched the games he thought about them.

She isolated herself from society yet delighted in the quotidian comforts of a liaison.

Temper is revealing, and the last time he drove to DC—he was cool as a cucumber. He practiced self reflection on a QWERTY keyboard and a yoga mat.

They are ready to write the next chapter.

⌘

In Memory

"Don't hang up," I pleaded at the last second.
"Oh, okay," he said casually. "Let me fix my drink."
I listened to him get out of bed and light a cigarette.
"Just walking to the kitchen," he reported.
"Sounds good … love you."
"Love you too."

I met Kent in 1985. We both worked at the Ken Cinema in San Diego. He was a projectionist and I made popcorn. We eventually learned that both of us loved to boogie. So we played records and danced until 2am. Then we kissed on the couch which belonged to his roommate, Ernie.

Forty years later, we remembered all that—the get downs and the reefer and the beers on tap.

I became a fan of Barry White thanks to DJ Kent on Monday nights at the Whistle Stop, which was a casual, low-lit gay bar in South Park where Kent would often play the silky baritones of the Prince of Pillow Talk: "I've heard people say that, too much of anything is no good for you, baby … but, I don't know about that.” Kent and I would agree:

We can’t get enough of that L-O-V-E

I cherish my record collection. And I probably (👀, girrrrrl*) have some of Kent's vinyl in the bins. This makes me happy.

* Kent’s voice in my head.

❤️ Kent Landis Hartman ❤️
(1953–2025)

⌘