Place and Body

Place and Body
by Pat A Physics

Return to where you grew up and find it changed. She’s a cocktail
waitress at a chain-chicken-wing pub and he’s a depressed, pot-smoking
engineer wasting his potential at the off-license. They had an early
bright patch with school and the small-town party scene. There’s
the rock wall that he jumped over and elicited a gasp from a crowd
of her friends. Think back to the paint that was stolen, the rituals,
the initial, drug induced fiasco, the football field that was desecrated,
music so tender and real from her mouth, bonfires, drunk driving,
fruit juice cleansing that toppled an emotional breakdown, the stone
pathway into the grotto, and the terrible bus that they bought.
All of it folded behind a normal, modern drone of activity. She
has kids, got divorced, worries about her weight, and uses credit cards.
He has a truck, dates occasionally, uses psychotropic drugs, and
can’t go to sleep without a fan blowing air in his face. Without them,
you would have been career-oriented, obsessed with darts, a lonely disk
jockey, less gregarious, more in touch with current trends, and
moved away sooner. And yet, you moved away anyway and the
point of departure doesn’t really matter. The alternating neon sign
of her restaurant, the barbed chain-link fence off to the side of
his garage, and the vacancy of your presence transition in jagged,
twisted space.

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