by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
I play the guitar and harmonica at open mics. I also play the Jew’s Harp. I’m a regular. I’m terrible. Everyone feels sorry for me, but they applaud politely.
Before I go onstage, I study the cover of Dylan’s Nashville Skyline for at least an hour. I may suck, but at least I have a jaunty expression. I don’t know where I’m going with this, other than to say that I wear baggy black pants to hide the flabby thickness of my thighs. I am procrastinating beginning life until I am perfect, though I know that may be a while.
I don’t know where this is going, maybe because I have high myopia, though with correction I can see well enough to work. Still, men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. But I think one day my vision will just be shot, and wearing glasses won’t do me any good.
And I keep moving north, each year a little farther, always moving up on the map. One day I’ll take a mighty leap. I’ll spring from the Arctic into outer space.