BANG OUT

Orion pulls onto the sidewalk in his 5 speed Toyota truck without power steering. Wrenching his small arms against the wheel, he half smiles half coughs as he comes to a stop. “Ohh Matt,” he says like he wants something but doesn’t want to ask for it. “What’s up man?” I ask, reminding us that even though we want things from each other, we are still men. “Ohh, Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt” he says, and this surge of annoyance moves through me. “What’s up?” He is saying my name as if it will exhume the evil spirit of his ex-girlfriend who is not dead, but I can’t think of any new suggestion to help him stop obsessing over her besides some type of supernatural/paranormal assistance. “You seem bummed,” I say as I slide onto the bench seat beside him. He shakes the shifter around a few times before popping it into reverse, looking at me in the eyes, and letting out a sigh. “Dude, what’s going on?”I laugh. I call him dude to remind him that even though I care about how he is feeling, we are both still dudes. The car’s body is vibrating against its frame as we slowly idle backwards into the street, dropping off the curb, rear axle then front. “I farted. Sorry,” he says, and another half cough, half smile. I shake my head and wait for it to hit. Orion’s farts smell like shoes that have been worn without socks for several summers. His shoes smell like that too, in fact he’s the only person I know who wears shoes without socks for several summers, his blue vans, scraps of canvas stitched together with dental floss, congealed sweat, and shoe-goo filling the spaces between. Perhaps his footwear’s odor somehow leaches up through his legs and into his stomach, coming out in his farts. It doesn’t bother me that much, in fact they smell better than your standard eggy or spicy fart. It might be that when you have smelled someone’s farts consistently for many years, they begin to not bother you, just like your own snot doesn’t gross you out when you see it in a tissue. “Matt, Matt, Matt… I’m sorry.” And he leans over to hug me, letting the gears grind, with the truck blocking half of 42nd avenue. I pat him on the back and fake a laugh. “We should get going. I think there’s cars coming.” The truck is shaking and shaking and I realize that the truck is actually still and it is Orion who is shaking, heaving against my chest, crying. He pulls his head away and wipes his tears with his index fingers, sniffling. My flannel shirt, moist with a mixture of Orion’s tears, snot, and my own sweat, hangs heavy and awkward on my shoulders, wrinkling down towards my butt, where it disappears, pinched between the rough gray fabric of the truck’s bench and my jeans. I will have to have it dry-cleaned now. I think about painting the walls of the truck cab white, how that might make me feel lighter in this moment, I think about how I never cry in front of my friends, but cry too much in front of my lovers, I think about my father weeping when he found out he wouldn’t be able to retire for 10 more years, I think about saying something vague and hopeful like: It’ll be alright, or, in another year you’ll be crying over a new ex-girlfriend, or, for a door to open sometimes a window must close, some crap like that. “Sorry, man” I blurt out, reminding us that though he shared his tears with me, we are both still men. “I saw her last night and it was obvious that she doesn’t love me anymore. It was just obvious.” “Yeah?” I say. “I feel a lot better now though,” he says. I’m holding my breath as he pulls the shifter into first and pushes his weight into the gas pedal.

Copyright © 2009, Matt L. Rohrer