betting on the muse

Mr. E

Arriving at a school at 6:00 in the morning is like coming to church on a weekday. There’s no one there, and the toilet water is still blue.

Eli was standing in a room at West Terrance Flipperman High School. The only sound he could hear was the rustle of papers, earsplitting in comparison with the hush of the school. He had a strong sense of doubt when it came to whether it was necessary for him to be there or not, but as a new student English teacher, it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

“This is your office, Eli,” The stodgy Mrs. Nettle spoke loudly- pointing one gnarled finger at a desk adjacent to her own in the classroom. The desk was falling apart, and Mrs. Nettle wasn’t getting any younger either. Eli wondered if her parents had ridden in a horse and buggy to work. She pronounced Eli’s name with care- wrongly, of course. His name was Eli Edison, or as he’d asked her to say, Mr. E. After all, even a young student teacher deserved a little respect. What was more respectful than not uttering his peculiar and embarrassing name aloud?

Mrs. Nettle was glaring a hole in Eli’s shirt. He liked it and had worn it because the proceeds went to charity. Already unbearably uncomfortable, Eli resisted the urge to scamper back to his Jeep, drive far, far away, and never come back (unless he got hungry).

“Teaching takes time, Eli.” Mrs. Nettle sneered. So, he guessed, he’d gotten the same kind of evil teacher he’d always had back in high school. Mrs. Nettle’s hardened face, jeopardizing frown, and frumpy wool outfit gave the impression that she’d been teaching for much, much longer than Eli had been alive.

There was a distinct smell of pot smoke wafting out from under the apartment door. Eli plugged his nose and barged in.

A circle of giddy twenty-something’s glanced his way and cackled almost as one. Funny how drugs did pretty much the same thing to everyone.

“Hey, I’d say come on over here but maybe the next round,” said Jack, an old friend of Eli’s- and consequentially, his roommate. He indicated an empty bag which had previously been filled with illicit depressants, and turned back to his circle of doting druggy friends (mostly, Eli observed smugly, girls).

They appeared to be engaged in some sort of Hare Krishna-like chanting ritual. Not one to impose (not that he wanted to join this group), Eli passed them and pitched his backpack- something he’d expected to get rid of but kept anyways- down on the kitchenette tile counter. He sniffed the smoky air curiously. Eli had never tried marijuana himself, despite countless encounters with it at college and high school. Now, sharing a small apartment with Jack, he hadn’t expected to still be under that large magnifying glass that was peer pressure. But there they were, huddled around the rug with legs folded like pretzels. The decisions you made at school stayed with you forever.

Especially in Eli’s case. He was leaving school as a student and coming back as a student teacher. Excited as he was about his first job, he wasn’t positive this was the one for him. This morning’s meet-and-greet before school with the teachers presented a staff that was made of crumbling, flaky individuals with fading hair color and sloppy wardrobes. He dreaded becoming like them, but was it unavoidable?

After opening the fridge and weighing his options, Eli selected a Red Bull- it was either that, or an opened can of Budweiser. Not exactly sure what the beer contained other than beer, he thought it best to stick with identifiable beverages. As he popped the tab, there was a rapping at the door. Eli looked at Jack. He was leaning back, looking nervous, from the circle. Apparently no one else was invited to this shindig, Eli thought. He had the drill memorized.

Jack sprung from the floor with agility and clamorously rolled up the rug, drugs inside. His woozy friends became alert- some sprinted to the window and climbed down the fire escape; others just crawled to the nearest hiding spot. Eli watched, amused. It was like an incredibly messed-up game of hide-and-seek.

Jack stuffed the rug in the hall closet and looked through the glass spying device thing they had on their door.

“Yeah?” He asked the door. There was more rapping. Jack opened it. It was Ally, his most recent slutty girlfriend. She was, Eli admitted to himself, much more beautiful than Jack’s previous feminine endeavors. Ally had long, shiny auburn hair, wasn’t nauseatingly skinny, and didn’t make the room smell like a strong tea bag when she came in. Actually, she smelled sexy, Eli thought, as a casual observer of course.

Whatever. She must have been interested in Jack, whose Grecian profile and dark hair classified him as everyone’s type. Modest as he pretended to be, Jack must have secretly known that he was on every girl’s wish list. Ally, however, didn’t seem to be impressed at the moment.

“Why does it smell like Amsterdam in here?” She demanded. Stepping over the threshold in green Converse Chucks, Ally sauntered over to the closet and stepped to the side as she opened it. The carpet roll tilted and fell, exposing the contents Jack had tried to conceal. Smirking proudly, Ally, now being watched by everyone left in the apartment, including a shell-shocked Jack, came into the kitchen near Eli. He involuntarily gaped as Ally took a pen and Post-It, wrote something on it, and pressed it into his hand.

She bit her lip and smiled, something Eli would contemplate the rest of the night, and said,

“Bye, Eli,”

Then before Eli could blink or become violently spastic (which he tended to become in the presence of females), Ally was out the door again, as quickly as she’d come.

The Post-It was still clutched in Eli’s hand. As he was coming to terms with reality, he didn’t realize he hadn’t read it yet. After a second, he opened his palm. In red pen the note clearly said “Chubby’s. 8:00”. About two seconds later, either from the Red Bull kicking in, or simply testosterone, Eli gave a whoop in disbelief.

“What? What’s it say, man?” Jack asked impatiently. His brow was furrowed. Eli never got a girl’s attention. This was a phenomenon, indeed.

“It says ‘Chubby’s. 8:00! What the hell?! She’s asking me out!” Eli whooped again and shook his Red Bull in the air with vigor.

Jack glared at the Post-It as if it was a note from the doctor saying he was physically unable to ingest alcohol.

“Ally’s supposed to be my chick,” Jack growled. He ripped the note into confetti, “If she’s really asking you for pizza, it’s probably ‘cause she thinks you’re manorexic.” Jack snatched Eli’s Red Bull and chugged the rest irritably.

As if to prove his point, Eli’s pants arbitrarily dropped around his ankles. He looked down awkwardly at his exposed boxers.

“Oops. Forgot to wear a belt.” he said sheepishly. Eli hopped over to the bedroom to find one. The other spare bedroom in the apartment was being used by the two as space for their band equipment, and a room for their lesser observed roommate, Boris Osborne. Boris took up little space, being four foot seven. B.O., as he was more affectionately known, was a devout Buddhist, and spent most of his time meditating. When he did emerge from the spare room, he would come wearing a biodegradable hemp sweater, some navy socks, and a pair of white boxer briefs that left little to the imagination. He would go outside dressed that way, and as such had been arrested for inappropriate exposure, thus earning him Jack and Eli’s friendship. B.O. was the only dude they knew with enough guts to challenge society like that.

Besides Boris’s few possessions, there was a drum set, a bass guitar, an acoustic guitar, and a keyboard. Eli played the acoustic and the keyboard in his spare time, while Jack practiced the drums and bass all day. Since he didn’t have a job (yet) all Jack did was eat, sleep, and play, which, thought Eli, was pretty cool.

Eli grabbed one of his Baker Skateboards belts with a chrome buckle, and weaved it through the loops in his jeans. He couldn’t help being nervous that Ally, a hot girl he really knew nothing about, had asked him to go with her to get artery-clogging food on a Monday night. Really, he thought, who did that?

It’s not like you’d know, Eli reminded himself. He fished his cell out of his pants pocket and read the time- it was approaching 7:30, and Chubby’s was a five minute walk. Eli raced to the bathroom, past Jack’s buddies who were resuming their previous activity, and hopped in the shower. After dressing himself in the same clothes, plus a belt-matching black Baker sweatshirt, Eli slipped on his checkered Vans and headed on over to Chubby’s Pizza.

There was no denying it, Eli thought. He’d become a stud.

If you’ve never seen John Travolta walking down the street in Saturday Night Fever, then you can’t imagine how Eli looked as he strutted down the block. With his baggy, quasi-skater clothing, his shaggy, unkempt hair he never brushed, and his pigeon-toed walk, he looked more like a Nickelodeon cartoon character than a stud. Or perhaps a really retarded college grad attempting an infamous Hollywood walk down an alley in Minneapolis. Either way, he stuck out like a weed in a sidewalk crack. As he approached Chubby’s, all he could think about was his impending date. A date with Ally. A date, he mused quite cheerfully, with a sexy-smelling whore.

Eli bent to examine his hair in a car-mirror.

“Do you mind?” asked a couple kissing in the car. He headed into the pizza parlor with no clue what to expect. Chubby’s was unfamiliar territory to him. It was essentially, the pizza of the elite. He was never invited to Chubby’s, where as Jack was invited practically every day, many times by more than one group. Jack, deep down being the nice guy he was, had vaguely offered to get him asked along too, but Eli wasn’t one to impose (or join in where he wasn’t wanted).

Now, he thought, he was one of them. One of the chosen. It was exhilarating. He pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder. Nothing. Finally, with all his strength he heaved the door towards him. The exit door opened, and a giggling group of dolled-up college girls emerged, leaving for the night. One pointed at a sign above the handle.

“Try pushing it.” she suggested. The rest of the party laughed briefly at Eli’s expense, and then disappeared into a waiting yellow cab. Eli, determined not to let anything spoil the night, defiantly pushed the door open and continued his Travolta swagger from the front waiter podium into the main restaurant. He glanced around with attitude, looking for Ally.

“Edison!” called a girl’s voice. Ah, it was her. Eli turned and saw her, expecting a breathtaking sight to behold. Unfortunately, Ally didn’t appear as glamorous as she had earlier at his apartment. It seemed she’d removed the majority of her eye makeup and concealer, and her once skimpy clothes were substituted with a college letter jacket and loose jeans. On top of all that, her sexy perfume smelled about ten times less strong, leaving him to breathe the duller aroma of feminine deodorant. She looked (and smelled) like the girl next door. Frankly, Eli was pissed. He’d been expecting a slut, and damn it, he wanted a slut!

He resisted running back the way he’d come- his better nature told him to stay and act like he was happy to be there.

He plastered a phony grin on his face and asked pleasantly, “So, whose letter jacket are you wearing?”

“Oh, this?” Ally smiled with innocence that was laughably fake. “It’s Jack’s.”

Eli’s grin faded. His resolution to stay positive had been rolled over by an extremely heavy steamroller. All he could do was let the cushy booth soften the blow of his fall. He sat down opposite Ally and sighed with disappointment.

John Travolta would’ve been laid by now.

The date was a horrible flop, and the pair hadn’t even ordered dessert.

“What the hell?” yelled Eli, mouth full of BBQ-chicken, “You only liked me because you thought I was related to Albert Einstein?!”

Ally glared at him, “No, I thought you were related to Albert Edison, but you keep telling me he doesn’t exist!” She turned away in contempt and then added, “I know he’s dead, but that doesn’t make him not you’re ancestor!”

“I said Albert Edison didn’t exist! His name was Thomas Edison!”

Ally looked instantly turned off. “Oh,” She said, “Well, your ancestors weren’t as smart as I thought they were then.”

It was Eli’s second day on the job. He had been sitting at the same desk in the same squeaky chair for three hours. Somehow, he had to wait another before he and Mrs. Nettle could head to the teacher’s lounge. He’d brought leftover pizza from his pathetic date with Ally. The delicious cheesy chicken topped pizza was, truthfully, the only reason he’d dragged himself out of bed. The only thing helping him sit through the long morning classes. He stared at the clock roughly every forty-five seconds, alternating between that and grading A.P. papers.

Mrs. Nettle was pacing the room, scrutinizing the faces of her students. Stopping, she prepared to write. She spat into the palm of her hand and wiped the muddled chalk board clean. She wrote the class’s assignment in almost illegible handwriting on the board. It looked like the class needed to “Ruddle the Shbook on Cerebrals”. Eli tilted his head to the side- or “Read the Book on Communism” he guessed.

One boy raised his hand tentatively. “Mrs. Nettle? I don’t want to be a bother, but are we doing debates on this subject this year?” He looked hopeful.

Mrs. Nettle glared, “Did you read your schedule?” It was a rhetorical question. He had read it, and it wasn’t on there; which they both knew. The boy lowered his head, deflated.

Eli looked at the time. Fifteen more minutes before he could enjoy chickeny pizza bliss.

The teacher’s lounge (which was suspiciously damp), was on the lower floor of the building, between the janitor’s office and the Esperanto Club. It was a hallway that was rarely entered by students- unless they were ordered by a teacher to enter “the lounge” and get said teacher a coffee or caffeinated beverage. Most of the lights in the room were burned out except for the ones over the tiny counter by the fridge, giving the room an eerie ambience. Eli opened the fridge and found the leftovers. He removed them, bought himself a Diet Coke, and chose a table conveniently placed as far from Mrs. Nettle as possible.

Eli looked around at the fellow staff members with whom he was about to dine. Only one he recognized- the student counselor, Mr. Kroch. Needless to say, Eli had already heard nasty comments about him between classes. The others, Eli hadn’t had the pleasure (ha) of meeting. One haggard-looking woman seemed to be in her early forties, and was chunking out. She was ripping apart pieces of lettuce to make herself a dressing-less salad. The man across from her was vainly trying to explain his trigonometry lesson for the day.

Another girl was wearing a paint-splattered smock and thick-rimmed, colorful glasses. She must have been the art teacher. She was really young; not much older than Eli, if older at all. He decided she was the most interesting of the bunch. Eli watched her heat up a Tupperware filled with pasta of the Asian persuasion. She sat down next to him and popped the lid. Eli couldn’t help thinking a few less carbohydrates might do her waistline some good.

“Don’t believe we’ve met,” she observed cheerfully. “I’m Angie, the artist.” Then, without shaking hands, she gave him an awkward, rather uncalled-for hug. She began digging into her noodles.

“Doesn’t this school just make you want to eat? I can never wait for lunch!” Angie kept eating as she talked. Who was this person? Eli wondered. She had all the characteristics of a fussy art teacher, but she didn’t look old enough.

“Do you teach art here?” he asked.

Angie looked up, an un-slurped noodle hanging from her mouth. “Not yet,” she whispered. “I’m a student teacher. But the old teacher is retiring.” Angie seemed to think this was classified information, so Eli went along with it. He leaned in and whispered,

“I’m Mrs. Nettle’s student teacher.” he waited for Angie’s reaction, and continued once he’d received an apologetic look, “It sucks!”

“I know!” she said, waving her fork. “Why can’t we just teach? I mean, I’m not even that good of an artist! What else am I supposed to do with my life?” she laughed and continued eating. Eli smiled. Talking to Angie at lunch was the best part of his day so far.

After school, Eli headed to Chubby’s and sat down at the bar. After ordering three beers and drinking each of them slowly, he began to feel sick to his stomach. He decided he didn’t feel like puking yet; he called for another round. Working at the high school felt like a tedious reminder of his academic days- which had come and gone all too slowly. He’d graduated, and gone back to school- it was wearing on him. He wanted a job with other adults- ones that didn’t pray for capital punishment to be reinstated on their students. Or maybe a job where there was a bit of excitement and a little less monotony. He thought of Angie, and her sparkly glasses. He was beginning to see sparkles himself- not good.

Eli watched as someone hopped on the bar counter. Looking up, Eli recognized the dejected senior who’d asked about debates from Mrs. Nettle’s class. He stood tall and cleared his throat amidst the groans of the people around.

“Marx, shaddup!”

“Go back to Prussia where you belong!”

The boy began to speak. “People of Chubby’s Pizza: Unite within a single union class! Abolish the wage system!”

Some of the other employees rolled their eyes.

Eli glanced at the guy sitting next to him. “What’s this guy doing?”

He shrugged plaintively, “This moron’s been trying to start a union for the last two or three years. We call him Marx- he’s the biggest commie that ever walked the face of the earth.” The guy looked away, took a big swig from his mug, and pounded on the bar. “Marx, shut up and get me a beer!”

“Less talk, more BEER!” shouted another.

Marx was still making his speech- now singing shrilly. Eli made a mental note to check if his schedule included choir, and if so, personally apologize to the teacher.

A burly guy came from the kitchen and pulled Marx from the counter, tossing him over his shoulder. As he carried him into the kitchen, Marx screamed, “Workers of the world; unite!”

“Oh, jeez! How can he still be around?” asked one guy.

“Bar owner’s a socialist commie himself. He’d kiss Fidel’s dirty foot if he had the chance.”

Bewildered, Eli paid the bartender and stumbled out. He was drunk, his pants were falling off again, and he smelled like cafeteria food. Maybe he could take a sick day from work- play hooky.

He walked back to the apartment. As he entered the building, he saw Boris in the lobby. He looked irritated, but Boris always kept his composure.

“B.O.! How’s the air down there, short stuff?” Eli had difficulty putting a sentence together. How was he supposed to explain his inevitable hangover to Mrs. Nettle?

“I’m afraid I must find myself a singular abode. It’s our mutual friend, Jack. His abuse of illegal drugs is deterring me from my definitive goal. It may seem unachievable to you, but I can just about see the light!” Boris went on, “However, my comrade, the light is presently shrouded by a substantial smoke- I think we both understand what I mean.”

He’d lost Boris at enlightenment. About the closest Eli would ever get to enlightenment was discovering why the hell he’d ordered and drained four beers in the last hour.

“At least take my pants, Boris,” Eli said firmly, “You need them more than I do.”

Eli removed his belt and jeans, and handed them to Boris, whose last words to him were,

“Thank you, Eli Edison. I shall never forget you, or this charitable donation you have made at my revenue. And now, I bid you farewell.”

The last thing Eli saw before passing out was Boris leaving the building. With the pants tucked beneath his tiny arm, he hailed a cab in his underpants.

Dream-land is a spectacular place. One can dream about perfume, The Gilmore Girls, salmon, and feet, and then wake up to find that their TiVo broke and their feet smell like fish. This was the case with Eli, who’d been dreaming about his own band, in which he was the lead singer, opening for The White Stripes. He was just meeting Meg White- and she was doing a drum solo she’d composed just for him and-

“Morning, sunshine!” Someone whistled.

Eli awoke to a horrific realization. Sitting up, he instinctively looked down at himself. He was wearing a dress. He’d passed out next to the building’s laundry room. Someone must have dressed him in the girly outfit while he was asleep. His face looked like carpet, his breath smelled like bread, and to a passerby, he appeared to be a cross dresser.

This was interesting. Now what? He wondered. Well, he assumed suicide wasn’t currently an option. He estimated the amount of force he’d need to fatally fling himself off one of the tables in the lobby. Okay, maybe not.

He hoisted himself into a standing position, and then the second sequence of the cruel joke came into play. The dress was made for a very small, very skinny girl. It didn’t even cover his butt.

He looked around for where the prankster may have hidden his boxers and clothes. Then, something caught his eye. Outside, hanging limply far above the ground from a flagpole, was his previous day’s ensemble.

Shit.

Better to leave them, he promptly decided. So now he needed keys to the apartment. Which were…in his pants pockets. That he’d given to Boris. And his cell? Pants pockets.

And his dignity? Lost forever. He sank to his knees and raised his fists in frustration. Is this what I get, God, he asked almost sarcastically, for helping a friend?

Double shit. He remembered: Buddhists were atheists.

Eli’s alarm clock went off at 5:15 in the morning. The sun hadn’t made a complete appearance yet, and only a thin gleam of moonlight was shining through the window. Eli, in a particularly bad mood, didn’t even have to step out of his bed to wake up on the wrong side. He screamed and rolled over, and began viciously beating the clock, aiming to shatter it into oblivion. Once he had succeeded in stopping it, the clock, now utterly worthless, lay in a broken heap on the carpet.

Thankfully Jack had let Eli in. He could have had to sleep in the lobby.

He cursed and swore like a sailor. Irritable and exhausted, he rolled out from under the sheets, landed on his knees, and crawled over to the dresser to throw on the first thing he found without a stain. The ensuing thirty minutes were spent dolefully munching Pop-Tarts, and driving to school in gloom.

Eli was pissed to be pissed. Did that made him pissed squared? He thought about it, but math was lost on him. His math skills had hit a dead end at algebra, and he even had difficulty understanding that. What was the point? They always said, “Solve for x” but what was “x” and why should he waste his time trying to figure it out? Why should he waste his time trying to figure out why they wanted him to waste his time figuring it out?

Everything was looking like crap until third period. Eli was reading an optimistic paper on the virtues and triumphs of communism- written by none other than Marx (whose actual name, believe it or not, was Marcus).

Marcus claimed to be a “Marxist humanist”. He insisted that it was not the 12-hour work-day that enslaved man, but the very conditions behind capitalism. The working man himself would never be able to decide the conditions of his job; they would always be determined by the employer. This, he deemed, was quite unfair unless you were the employer yourself.

Eli read this and felt empowered. Communism! What an excellent idea! He read it over and over, not bothering with the other thirty papers he was supposed to grade. It made him want to take a stand against waking up at ungodly hours.

But not abolish the wage system, because then he wouldn’t be able to pay his share of the rent.

The bell rang and Eli sprinted to the art room to catch Angie. She was snacking on Reece’s peanut butter cups and sipping iced tea, but Eli knew that wasn’t her lunch. She resembled Boris’s old jade statue, where a very content, roly-poly Buddha sat and meditated while eating cakes and croissants.

Talking to Angie was very calming; she hugged a lot, and tended to murmur at random. Fortunately, Eli didn’t have to pay her or lay on a couch while they talked, but he did look at ink blots. Or at least, they appeared to be ink blots; but they were Angie’s “art”.

After they walked to get their food from the fridge, the pair came back over to the art room to eat their meal together. Angie had her Asian noodles; Eli had his Diet Coke and leftovers.

“May I have this dance?” Angie asked, twirling like a ballerina in the hall. He accepted reluctantly, her floppy physique embracing him with a width twice as wide as his own. He noticed that he could probably fit both of his string-bean legs into one side of her pants.

Eli self-consciously waltzed with Angie, fearing that at any moment a student would turn the corner and find them. The waltz was an elegant dance, but he and Angie performed it with as much grace as a break-dancing Sumo. It wasn’t over till the fat lady sung, but the fat lady obviously had no dance experience either.

Angie stuck out her tongue at Eli. “My tongue is incredibly flexible,” She revealed, still boogieing. “I can roll it, bend it, fold it,” She let go of Eli. This situation was weirdly random.

“It must make you an excellent kisser,” Eli said matter-of-factly. They reached the art room, and Angie finally stopped bobbing around like a fat jack-in-the-box. They entered and sat on a decrepit sofa. They ate. They drank. They exchanged hugs and pleasantries.

Then, they ran out of things to say.

“Eli, I think I like you as more than a friend.” Angie blurted.

Eli wasn’t shocked. She probably didn’t expect a quick reaction, but Eli’s thoughts slipped out:

“Angie, you need to lose twenty pounds.”

Angie, also quick to react, responded by bursting into tears and pitching her noodles in Eli’s face. She then made like a banana, and split.

Clouds of smoke and flickering lighters seemed to follow Eli home. The sky was getting dark; Eli could tell from the reflections of the sunset on his greasy brown shoes. He stared at them as he walked along. Society had screwed him, he thought, as a mourning hippie belched and begged for a few cents. Eli bent to give him a five dollar bill- it landed in the man’s outstretched coffee cup.

“Hey, fuck you man- that was my only cup of coffee!” cried the hippie. He dragged the soaked cash out from his cup and glared at Eli suspiciously. Eli decided that he didn’t really care that much. Plus, he knew the man would finish the coffee anyways and then use the fiver to help finance his “habit”. The sky continued to dim as his feet plapped at the pavement.

He reached his decidedly humble abode after a difficult climb up the stairs- made more difficult by the fact that Eli hadn’t exercised since he was a high school student himself.

“Jack? You in there?” called Eli. He noticed excess smoke rising from under the door. “Jack! Jack! Open the door!” Eli called, this time more frantically. Shit! He had no keys! He still hadn’t found his keys! Crackling smoke rolled across the floor as Eli hopped around near the threshold, becoming increasingly desperate.

A moment later, a jiggling fat man came pounding down the stairs. “Uh,” he grunted, “What’s cookin’?”

Eli thought fast. He charged up the stairs, not quite aware of what he was doing. “Ai-iiiiiii!” He screamed as he crashed full on into what must have been the enormous man’s bladder, because he erupted in a fart rivaling the Krakatoa volcano. The fat man grunted and writhed as they snowballed down the stairwell and smacked into Eli’s apartment door. The door crumpled and the next thing he knew, Eli was in his own burning residence.

The fat man screamed and made like an egg as he scrambled away from the door. No longer continuing at his leisurely pace, he rumbled away without bothering to call the police on Eli for assault. Eli had more important things to worry about as well. His head whipped around, scanning the room for Jack.

“Jack! I’m not kidding around here, where are you?!” His voice was cracking and his face was starting to turn red from the hot flickering flames. They seemed to come from Jack’s open door, and were spreading out toward his room. After hesitating, he screamed his friends name once more. When there was no answer he knew he had to leave. There was clearly no chance of him putting this out with a little fire extinguisher.

Nonetheless, he sprinted back after getting one from down the hall. The building was starting to evacuate with frightened faces, instead of the bored and pissed-off looks they had when there were false alarms. As the flames began to lick the kitchen pillars and the pot-storing rug, Eli extended his arms and torso into the apartment to quell the blaze.

The extinguisher made a squelching squeak and poured white liquid everywhere. Soon, the liquid was gone and there was nothing left for Eli to do. He listened to crying babies from parents running down the stairs and shrieking girls scared to die before they lost their youth. It was a terrible sound, and it made Eli remember his need to leave. He had to leave the apartment, or he was asking for death. Asking for death, he thought, with a laugh. And then, what a strange thing to laugh about.

The croaking railings of Eli’s apartment fire escape teetered treacherously as he began to lower himself down the ladders. He wondered with a cynical chuckle why they hadn’t bothered to update the ladders to stairs, before stumbling once and smacking his nose on the side of the building.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, wiping the dripping blood above his mouth. That was what he got for trying to find humor in an utterly desolate situation. He thought of all the cool characters in movies who like him, had escaped a building the same way and decided then and there that he would never go to the movies again. If someone had written his descent into a scene, if would have been the most boring shit ever to air on cinema.

He reached the second floor, where he was hoping there was another ladder to take him all the way down. Unfortunately, there was not. Below him, the wind blew a trash bag through an empty alleyway. He calculated that the only way to safety was in fact, not very safe. If he was Jason Bourne, he would have simply jumped into the opposing building’s window, but he figured there were cooler ways to die than attempting to crash through glass and failing miserably. He could already imagine the coroner’s amused face.

With a precarious sigh, Eli decided it was probably best to just wait. The burning building would just have to fuck itself.

Eli couldn't recall a time in his life where he'd felt more like a piece of shit.

He was propped up waiting to die, fire-extinguisher soaked hands somehow clung to a stale cup of coffee he'd taken and run off with without paying. He looked like a coal mining bum- his hair sticking up like an inpatient on narcotics. He sat with his legs folded, facing a greasy hot dog stand and staring blankly at the frying griddle rolling sausages. Flames seemed to hungrily lick the stainless steel lips in motion with munching night-goers. Eli was near Chubby's Pizza, where the two AM crowd was beginning to dwindle. A lone, gruff-looking bartender glared out the window and flexed his muscles as he closed the blinds. Eli wanted to watch every person passing by; to know each huffy woman that sidestepped around his gangly legs; every warbling college kid crooning like a choirboy in the cool Minneapolis air. There was no one he didn't want to be. Every misfortune seemed like a lucky break from where he was seated. Somewhere, thought Eli, some lucky bastard was having a heart attack.

The bitter coffee stuck to his tongue like tar, and with a grimace, he rose to his feet and walked a few steps before he spat, unluckily, on some poor guy's shoes. He looked down and saw the legs connected to burnt rubber soles. They wore familiar pants. Leather, and so worn in it seemed a set of kneecaps had been included in the price. Eli instantly recognized the womanizing features of the one and only Jack.

Jack was in a pot-induced stupor, his mouth hanging open lazily as he grinned like a retarded chimpanzee in a cage full of monolithic monkeys. His eyelids drooped, and then shot open as he noticed the caffeinated spit dripping down the side of his charred sneaker.

"Hey!" He barked, somehow managing to spray the air with a dry mouth. He contemplated. After a brief moment of consideration, Jack scooted with difficulty to make room for his friend to sit, slapping the ground with one free hand. The other clutched a brown paper bag, carefully tucked beneath an auspicious overcoat. With a sigh of satisfied ignorance, Jack faced Eli and frowned. It almost made Eli want to forgive him- but not quite.

They sat for a while, but Eli couldn't really bear looking at Jack. He was tired as hell, and still he watched the arrogant people pass him on the street, some without a care in the world. Besides, there was nothing to say. But they both continued to sit- neither had a place to go.

However, one of them did have something to do. Jack reached into his precious bag and slipped out a joint. With a quick flick of the wrist, it was lit. Jack was flying high.

Eli stood, disgusted. "You stupid, fucking idiot. What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing man, nothing at all." Jack stared at the ground. His dark hair, Eli noticed, was encrusted with debris.

"Jesus Christ, what do think is gonna happen, Jack? How is this gonna end for the both of us? Put the goddamn thing out!" Eli snatched the burning thing with fear and stomped it out. Jack leapt to his feet.

"Don't do that! Give it back!" He hissed, eyes gleaming dangerously.

"No. Go to hell!" Eli began to clamor away and then turned, "Look at us! We're homeless! I've got no place to go, you've got no place to go- what are we going to do?!"

Jack turned his back and stooped to gather the remnants of his joint, tearfully sniffing the last of the billowing smoke that was fading into the sky. There was no hope. Eli resumed walking away. This time, he was determined not to look back. The first thing he did with the last few cents snuggled in his pocket was make a call on the nearest pay phone to the police. The hell if he was going to watch his fuckup of a friend burn himself to death in another fire. Someone needed to clear the haze in Jack's idle brain- and Eli could think of no better justice than that.

Soon, Eli found himself habitually returning to the bar. Almost every day he would enter the door with attitude, but his morale had seemed to fade. With every swig of alcohol, his work-ethic weakened a few shades.

Marx’s communism papers in class were becoming less confident, and he had given up asking for support in his revolt at the bar. His sanguine attitude was diminishing to a dull acceptance of failure. Despite the fact that any wise mentor would tell Marx to keep up his efforts, no matter how pointless, it was obvious that Marx had no mentor whatsoever.

When there was no helpful guide, there was a bigger chance that someone was coming into school on a Monday with a pistol, hoping for a taste of sweet revenge. Kids like that had just snapped.

It was one of those days, and Eli was once again slouching around at Chubby’s, taking extra-large swigs of beer. The bar smelled stale from the un-bussed tables stacked high with plates of food and the breath of alcoholics’ doing shots in the corner booths. He had no place to go, since his apartment had been boarded up.

“Where’s Marcus tonight?” Eli asked the stoic bartender.

“He’s supposed to be here in a few minutes.” He replied, flippantly scrubbing a soured mug.

“‘Another beer, please.” Eli burped.

“Why don’t I just get you a keg and a straw?”

Eli shrugged, but he took the hint. Standing, the room spun, but Eli knew the way out drunk or sober. He staggered into the street. For whatever reason, Eli decided it would be a fun little game if he were to go the opposite direction that night, and see what was in the alleyway behind Chubby’s.

As Eli turned the corner, gripping a grimy alleyway wall for balance, he caught sight of someone near an exit. It was dark, but Eli recognized Marx right away.

“Marcus,” called Eli, “Marx! Guess who?”

Marx was unresponsive. Eli approached him and saw, with shock, that Marx’s bloody palms were facing towards the sky. His wrists were lying across his lap, slit from end to end.

Eli couldn’t believe it. He half ran, half fell, to Marx’s side and listened to his heart for a pulse. The only pounding he could hear was his own heart in his throat, beating twice as fast. But Marx couldn’t be dead- he couldn’t be! He was so young, too young!

He had no idea how to handle this. Defeated, Eli retreated from into the burning lights of the city surrounding him.

Stumbling out into the street, Eli slowly wound his way away from the alleyway behind Chubby’s. There was cold and slimy, mud from the building’s walls on his hand; as he wiped the sweat from his forehead he felt it drip down his face. He didn’t care. He was so confused that being drunk was making him delirious. Shaking, he dropped down to his knees near the same hot dog stand he’d sat at cross-legged a few days before.

Eli must have passed out for quite a while. He woke to find Boris Osborne standing over him, shading the sun. Eli’s body was comatose, and for some reason- he couldn’t remember exactly- he was shaking all over. It was like he’d had something awful slipped in his drink. But then, he mused, it was probably just the drink itself. Drinks.

Boris shifted and the afternoon sun blasted Eli’s face. It was 12 o’ clock noon and the world was slowly churning.

“I heard what happened,” Boris said, his voice thumping in Eli’s ears.

Eli grumbled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never tell me about your job, but Angie does. She told me about that boy, Marcus.”

“Leave me alone. I don’t want to know what happened.” Eli could already imagine the words he would hear.

Marcus is dead. You did nothing to stop it. You didn’t call for help.

But Boris didn’t say any more. He helped Eli, and together they made it into the shadow of a tall building.

Then he spoke. “I suppose you’ve got nowhere to live, then.”

Eli nodded; correct.

“Why don’t you come stay at my place, then? I don’t have a lot of space, really, but if you’re comfortable with a couch, then-”

“Better than what I got now,” he interrupted. Boris smiled in a way that was satisfactory. They walked to the corner curb and hailed a cab.

Eli still didn’t know if anyone had come to collect the body.

Eli hated arguments. Frequently, and if at all possible, he did his best to avoid them. Now he was having a very unpleasant one with Boris about himself. Another thing- himself- that he hated at the moment. Both debaters were unshaven and ugly-looking, with haggard stares and gaping fishy mouths. They both needed a good night’s sleep; Boris for lack of it, Eli for excess of alcohol. And so they fought.

Boris raised his cup of tea that could’ve used caffeine, slamming it down on the counter. The liquid sloshed over the edge and spattered slightly on the rough texture of his hemp ensemble.

“Eli, can’t you see that what happened to that boy, and what’s happening to Jack, is beginning to happen to you?” Boris stared him down and said, “How can you watch this self-destruct, and not scrutinize the similarities between them and yourself? You’ll end up dead just like Marcus- and you’ll go to hell, like Jack is certain to!”

“When I die,” Eli’s voice was low, “I want to have lived- no matter how screwed up my life happens to be.”

Eli could see Boris was struggling to find the right words. Eli knew that suicide was considered a dishonorable act to Buddhists. They sat in the small kitchen together. Each pondered their next move. A ray of light spread out from under the pulled shade, and Boris stood to open the blinds. The cascading light shined on Eli’s face, reflecting in his teary, toffee-colored eyes.

Death was something people could choose, not knowing if there was another life afterwards. Eli didn’t understand why he had to be the one to discover Marcus’s suicide. The one to find out that this teenager had ruined himself. Marcus had lost his hope; lost his dream.

And Boris didn’t understand why Eli was so affected. Boris could find solace in religion, Eli couldn’t. His agnostic beliefs led him to believe that Marcus was gone, and there was nothing they could do to heal the hole he’d left behind in their hearts.

The hands on the clock kept turning, but neither of them got the last word.

There were panties on the floor of Boris’s apartment.

Eli stared dumbly at them as they sat tauntingly in the corner, as if thrown there by accident. Like someone was in a hurry. He blinked. They were pretty big, too.

Under auto-pilot in the early afternoon haze, he trudged solemnly into the next room to find something to read. He needed to take a crap, and wanted a magazine. His nerves were at an end and his apartment was boarded up; he was useless. He’d taken so many sick days from teaching that he’d have to shave his head and tell his coworkers he had cancer just as an excuse. Or he could just tell them the truth.

Fuck that. They wouldn’t understand. Eli sighed and pulled a flask from his pocket. There was no time like 11 am to get a little drunk. He looked around Boris’s apartment again. His bloodshot eyes trained in on the lone panties. They looked so sad and forlorn that Eli almost let a tear slip down his cheek. Not unless I want to kick my own ass, he thought. Stupid panties.

Whose were they, anyways? The place was hardly a place to get it on. As a result of many years of Buddhism, Boris had opted to decorate his musty, subsidized living space with Asian flea-market purchases. There was a dysfunctional lantern swinging from the ceiling, and woven mats covering the cold, concrete floor. It was all fluorescent and adolescent- there was no way Angie would do it here.

Angie.

God damn it! Eli’s face crumpled like there was smelly blue cheese under his nose. He thought of Angie’s twinkling smile and smart glasses perching on her up-turned nose. The short, peachy fuzz on her cheeks you could only see under a good light. He glared at the canned bulbs humming above him. He wondered if you could even see that fuzz in here.

A lock clicked, a door swung, and in walked Boris. Thankfully, he was wearing pants today. He smiled at Eli as he returned from a hard day at… wherever he worked. Eli wasn’t sure.

Boris stroked some pubescent hairs on his chin. Eli decided to make like a band-aid with the question. Rip it off.

“So, whose panties?”

Boris froze. His eyes whipped to the lacy undergarments relaxing perpendicular. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Mine,” he replied.

His panties? Somehow, this was doubtful.

“I didn’t know you shopped in the plus-size section of Victoria’s Secret.” said Eli.

“Yes, well. More coverage” Boris scuttled over and snatched them, hurrying into his bedroom. He shoved them into a small dresser and reemerged. He was sweating. “Any calls from Jack lately?”

“Why?” Eli stiffened.

Boris shrugged, “He called me the other day.”

“What,” Eli’s mouth dropped like an oiled hinge. “From prison?”

“No, from his new place.” Boris look surprised. He must have figured they were on good terms. Eli hadn’t spoken to Jack since he’d called the cops on him. “He tells me he’s doing well. He’s met a lot of new people. He put me on hold to talk to one of them- a neighbor or something.” Boris walked behind the counter and poured himself a glass of tap water, sipping patiently.

Eli looked around for his coat, and remembered he was still wearing it. He hadn’t changed his clothes for at least two days. His pits smelled like rotten trash roasting over an open fire.

Boris was so naïve. He really believed that Jack had turned his life around in less than a week? That, what- the cloud of pot smoke had vanished like the apartment he’d burnt to the ground because of it? The world was no merry-go-round. It was a bleeding maze bubbling over with disappointment and despair. Eli could just imagine Jack toke up as he sat on the street. He must have spent a considerable chunk of change wasting his time talking to Boris. Eli wanted to find out why.

He slammed the door on his way out.

Out on the street the sun was shining, which surprised him. Walking up a couple blocks, Eli couldn’t believe life was going on without him. There was garbage in the gutters, and businessmen in monkey suits. But there was no Jack.

His cell began to ring.

He answered. “Hello?”

“Eli Edison?” asked the low voice of a woman lacking estrogen.

“Yeah?”

“This is Sharon from the Minneapolis Police Department. I have someone here I think might know you- a mister Jack Moriarty. He’d like to speak with you.”

Eli’s hands had begun to shake like a hula dancer on speed. The phone crackled as Sharon took Eli’s stunned silence to mean that he would speak to Jack. Eli waited.

“H-hullo?” Jack’s voice seemed far away, as always. He hadn’t changed. Eli hadn’t expected him to- Boris had been fooled.

“Is there a way you can spare me a couple hundred bucks for bail, ol’ buddy?” Jack asked. He was forlorn.

Eli considered it. A moment too long, apparently.

“Please, man, I’m begging you. I need it so bad. They’re gonna send me to rehab.”

This made Eli answer quick, “I’m not giving you the money, Jack.”

“But these people-” Jack began, sounding like a whining puppy.

“Fuck these people,” Eli said firmly, “I’m sorry. This is for your own good.”

He hung up the phone and continued walking- toward Chubby’s Pizza. Now he had no one to find, no responsibilities.

His feet looked good moving along the pavement.

School was going to be hell. Eli drove up the driveway of the high school and rounded the corner sharply, almost speeding into a pedestrian crossway sign. The sun was sleeping like the rest of the sane world, and there were ten folded dollar bills in Eli’s pocket. It was likely they’d be gone by the end of the day. It was the last of his money.

To quit or not to quit. The idea flashed in his mind. This job didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Marx was dead, Jack was in jail, and Boris was in love with Angie. These thoughts condensed into a migraine headache. Eli’s head began to pound as he slouched up the sidewalk to the east entrance.

No one in the hallways was mourning Marcus, their deceased classmate. Life was continuing as normal, and the only words of kindness were coming from pimp-like seniors with odd mustaches talking to giddy freshman. The world was fucked up.

Eli made a pit stop at the teacher’s lounge with a container of Boris’s cold vegetarian shit packed for lunch. He shoved it in the fridge and looked around for Angie. Other than a few crusty gentlemen in faded fleece sweats, Eli didn’t see anyone. He groaned inwardly and bounced on his heels. This was his worst fear. Now he had to face the day alone.

Bolting out of the lounge, the door made a sickly smack as he swung it open.

“Shit!” he heard someone say loudly. Someone continued to cuss as Eli peered around the door. It was Angie- hair spread out sloppily on the floor under her head. Her hand was rubbing a bruise. He rushed to help her up.

“I’m so sorry,” He blubbered, gesticulating with his free hand. He discovered he didn’t need both hands to pull her to her feet- she had lost weight. They stood face to face. Angie was glaring.

“Angie,” Eli breathed. He didn’t understand his urge to press his face against her bruise- as if he could heal it himself. He wanted to undo the pain he’d caused her.

“Eli,” She said snippily. She glanced at him and began collecting her things. “What brings you here or a weekday?”

“I, um, just coming back to my job,” He said.

She snorted, and began to walk toward the art room. Guess she wasn’t in the mood to dance today- her leaner physique sauntered away, leaving Eli behind. He ran to catch up.

“Angie, we need to talk.”

She looked up at his mournful face, paused, and turned. With a click, the art room was unlocked and they walked in together. They sat down on the same couch they’d sat on before, this time there was no fat from Angie’s legs hogging all the room. She looked pale. And sick.

“Where’s your lunch?” He asked. She pointed at a salad-filled container. Eli sniffed. No Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. This wasn’t the Angie he knew.

Eli sighed and looked at her. “Angie, I wanted to apologize for everything I said to you. I know I hurt your feelings. I mean, you were my only friend at this school and-”

“Friend?” Angie said, “Friend. I see how it is. You’re just going to pretend that you had no idea about…any of it.”

Eli was confused, “Any of…what?”

“You know what! You always knew- how could you not know. I was pathetic!” Angie was breathing hard and choking back angry tears. Eli tried to guess.

“You- you had a crush on me?” He looked at her pretty, thinning face.

Angie’s eyes were blurred, but she stared at him with conviction, “I loved you.”

They both gasped a little. And then waited.

Eli felt a shiver run up his spine. He felt himself say, “I love you, too.”

Angie’s head shot up. Her mouth hung open slightly, glistening. Her cheeks flushed. Then, without another thought, Eli grabbed her around the waist and felt his lips on hers. They were kissing. Angie. It felt so right.

She pulled away guiltily. “What about Boris?” she whispered.

He didn’t care. Neither of them cared. They could feel it. Everything was right. There was nothing they could do about Boris now. Eli slid his hand behind her head and there was nothing more to it.

Eli saw Boris walk into Chubby’s Pizza and head for the bar. Hallucinations didn’t happen to him often. He wasn’t crazy, but he couldn’t believe Boris would ever go anywhere near a bar unless it served nothing but water and wholesomeness. Eli slipped in unnoticed and took a seat at a small booth near the counter. Boris was pounding down drinks like Bukowski’s muse. He looked tense; but the drinks slowly began to loosen him up and he sat there and swayed.

Eli watched. He felt terrible. This was his fault- no doubt Angie had told Boris everything and they were finished. He stood, resolved to go home and pack his shit in a suitcase. He’d be gone before he had the chance to stab another person in the back.

But he didn’t get far. Angie came in the door and saw Boris at the bar. She ran to him.

“Boris!” She cried. He looked at her like she had duplicating heads. He wasn’t used to consuming alcohol like this. At all, for that matter. Somehow Eli remained invisible, and bore witness to all.

“Boris, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I never meant to hurt you.” Angie pleaded with Boris.

Boris didn’t answer. Instead, he groggily stepped off his stool. He then proceeded to remove his pants; underneath he was wearing Angie’s old panties. Angie gasped.

Eli laughed. Nice, he thought. Apparently, Angie was forgiven for the moment. Boris suddenly began smacking himself.

“FIRE!” He screamed. Boris saw Eli, “You asshole! You and Jack started a fire again!” He got on the ground and slowly began rolling himself around amid the muddy shoe-prints. He was crazy. Angie seemed afraid, but she saw Eli. They moved together and watched Boris put out the imaginary flames around him.

Angie matched Eli’s laughs with sobs. She grabbed Boris and tried to calm him into submission. Boris wouldn’t have it. He pointed at Eli.

“You- I know a guy like you. Lives ‘n my apartment now. ‘S names Eli,”

Boris grimaced and his cheeks bloated. He leaned over Angie’s kneeling body and hurled a tremendous wave of liquid. He’d had nothing to eat.

Eli had an idea, “Well, look buddy- let’s go find this guy! Beat him up!” He enthused. Boris looked up, nose and lips dripping.

“No. He’s a good guy. Good guy. Leave him.” Boris frowned. He looked down, “Gave me these pants.”

Angie chimed in, “It might make you feel better, Boris.”

Boris wheeled around, “Where’d you come from?” He screeched at Angie, “I’m broken hearted and I didn’t even get drunk like I was gonna.”

“I think you’ve accomplished more than you think.” Said Eli, “C’mon- let’s go beat the shit out of Eli Edison.”

Angie and Eli helped a staggering Boris to his feet and rested his slacked arms around their shoulders. They began down the street, their middle partner wailing in drunkenness.

Eli glanced at Angie’s pained countenance- she cared so much about this psychopath. It made his heart crack in two being the fence between their pastures of love. He imagined them briefly as frolicking sheep, and then stopped because it was slightly creepy.

Boris was light enough to be carried by one person. Eli stopped; Angie looked up. His face was white and his eyes were cracked with red lines and a certain sparkle. She smiled and held Boris around the waist, and they stumbled away together.

They looked so unalike- Boris a mere four foot seven, Angie a foot taller. They were like salt and pepper. And yet he’d never seen either one of his friends so completely happy.

Boris would have his very own life-sized Buddha. Although Angie was still the only girl he could imagine being with and Boris was his best friend, Eli knew he couldn’t stay mad at either one of them for long.

He watched them for awhile until only their faded silhouettes could be seen, and finally turned away when they were out of sight.

Chubby’s was there- quietly coaxing him to come in and get drunk like every other time he came. He entered obligingly, and sat down in his seat at the bar. The same seat he’d been in when Marcus had made his speech. The same seat- he laughed- he’d sat at every time he’d gotten trashed there.

Some things never changed. He called for the bartender, and then stopped.

“Just a Diet Coke, thanks.”

Yes, Chubby’s was the scene of many memories, some good, mostly bad. In fact, he thought, he had no idea why he still came there. The grubby bar had stains on the walls and doors swinging from squeaky hinges. Every person in there had two-digit IQ’s. The only thing semi-modern was the shiny bar. If you looked at it, you could see your reflection- or the panties of anyone standing on it.

Suddenly, almost mechanically, Eli climbed up on the bar counter, and stood tall. The people in the restaurant didn’t look up until he started to speak:

“People of Chubby’s Pizza- I am quitting my job!” Eli announced triumphantly. He waved over the same bartender that had manhandled Marx, who just watched him, amazed. “My good man- bring drinks for everyone!”

There was a collective cheer, and when the bartender had obliged, Eli raised his non-alcoholic drink and said, “A toast to Marx- live fast, die young! Drink up!”

“To Marx!” They shouted. Drinks were chugged, and belches rang from all around.

And on that night, everyone at Chubby’s was equal. Whether they were stupid or smart, skinny or fat, evangelical or agnostic, drunk or sober; they all united as one.

Eli may have lost everything, but there was no better way to start over. Who said it was wrong to make mistakes? If you never dig yourself into a hole, there’s no way to learn how to climb back out of one. That, decided Eli- pausing to belch himself- was an excellent philosophy to live by.