from Unsolicited Stories of Ex-Boyfriends

Morton repeats his stories of naval days again to no one in particular as he chain smokes in the room where we are seated. I was on the USS Missouri when the Japanese surrendered, and there are the black and white photographs on the wall to prove it, he sputters pointing with the tip of his cigarette. Though everyone in the photographs is about one quarter inch tall and I had little to no knowledge of history much less ships or sea despite a decent high school education. His wife holds an ice cube to my left ear as she prepares to pierce the virgin lobe.

Their son, my crush, cruises the neighborhood to score a five-finger baggie of grass which will likely be mostly stems and seeds. Back then we were only so particular. Morton is three sheets to the wind at 4 o’clock in the afternoon and gets mighty angry when interrupted. Their charcoal myna bird in a cage in the corner of the den repeats family expletives. After a while this isn't charming or even funny anymore. I wonder today why I was there alone with these people and where exactly were my friends, my net, and my understanding.

The television is on and yet no one is watching. I feel a slight stab though the connective tissue is numb. Orange juice stands at ready in a jelly jar with a drawing of Pebbles and Bam Bam on it, in case I feel faint, and Morton's daughter who is my age walks into the room with pink curlers in her hair. She makes a face at me behind her mother's back as if to tell me to run, get away while I can, and then exits through the garage because rarely did we use the doors that were right there patient with their dirty knobs and silenced doorbells.

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