Dead Leaves (The Worst Kind Of Man)
Everybody else raked their leaves as they fell. They preferred cold grass to a crunchy blanket, and they especially liked the way that they smelled as they burned. The people took pride in their dead and dying lawn-work, and they anticipated snow with a fervent energy. That snow would help make the grass especially green next spring.
We have a single tree in our yard, a large oak that births a variety of different colors with the changing of seasons. It’s so large that, if left untended, then our entire lawn sleeps comfortably even through the coldest of autumn nights.
We don’t even own a rake. I’m the worst kind of man. I don’t own a hammer, though I do own a few nails, and I can’t construct Ikea furniture. Not even when I have the instructions. My grandfather loaned me a drill the other day and I couldn’t even figure out how to change the drill bit.
I can compose a song. I can edit a video. I can take a photograph. But I can’t fix shit.
I’m the worst kind of man. I can’t change a flat fire. I even drive around without a spare, a cardinal sin, but I don’t even own a car. I’m that guy. I’m the guy that drives his girlfriend’s car around. Yup. That’s me. The worst kind of man.
Nobody in their right mind would ever call me when in need of a practical fix. I can’t fix a leaky faucet. I can’t lay drywall. I had to Google how to jump start a car the other night, and I still fucked it up the first three tries.
I can hug you when you’re sad, and I can understand an empathize. But I can’t fix what you’re crying about. I’m the worst kind of man.
I like the way dead leaves look, anyway.
She Told Him That He Stole Them For Her
Fluorescent bulbs and cigarette smoke. They are the wrong cigarette brand, but it doesn’t really make any difference. They all kill you the same way. Popular rap music from the early 2000’s plays over speakers that an ex-boyfriend stole for her. I shot photos with sharp back pains. My spine feels like an accordion and makes the same kind of sound, but only if you listen close enough. if you aren’t paying attention, then it doesn’t seem to make any noise at all.
But it does. It’s the saddest song, too. Pathetic, really.
The addict and the thief, twice removed from the present, focus on shoes. They don’t focus on the wrong kind of cigarette. They don’t even really pay attention to the music playing on stolen speakers.
Nope. Only shoes. That’s all there is.
They weren’t anything special, not unless you looked at them just right. One woman’s trash is another woman’s thrift store find. Another treasure sinking in an ocean of clearance stickers. We also bought a typewriter that day. Who gives away a perfectly good typewriter anyway?
She probably thought the same thing about the shoes.
Life Moving Faster