Somewhere Between A and B
by Jason Mims
Text copyright © 2012 a. j. s. mims media
All Rights Reserved
This work is like an undedicated shot: for something or someone that will not be mentioned.
Table of Contents
A Fantasy of Sorts 20
An Ode to Academia 43
Bar Room Magic 1
It’s Better to be Right than have Peace 13
Limbo 16
Memories Fucking Suck 60
Summer Rains 4
Bar Room Magic
(or What I Do When I Should be Taking Notes)
“I’m an immigrant to this computer age,” he said with a slight twinkle in his eye. “But, I’m a wizard at getting information the old fashioned way.” He put a strange amount of emphasis on the word “wizard” as he took a sip of his beer. The strength of his words did not match his apparent age; he spoke the way a much younger man would.
But I couldn’t pay him anymore heed. The bar was full and he was only one patron among many. Back to work for me. I poured the sobbing man his third Jameson on the rocks, while ignoring his complaints about women-who said bartenders actually listened? I gave the three drunk broskis in suits their Four Horsemen’s (Jägermeister variety), laughing slightly as I heard them bitch about the new smoking ban in bars. So naturally I took a drag on my e-cig in front of them. I handed the tall, skinny guy his fifth Smirnoff Ice. He explained to me that beer made him sick, so I explained to him that he was a faggot. Fuck being politically correct. Four Diet Coke & Vodkas for the luscious ladies in the corner. Does Diet Coke taste better, or are the bitches seriously watching their weight? There are much better things to watch on them in my opinion.
And then I was back to the old man. He ordered another beer, a German beer to be specific, his too large suit dangling from his bony wrist as he hoisted the glass to his lips.
“You know,” he began after he downed the beverage, “I wish I could go back in time and buy the guy who invented beer a beer.” He laughed at his own corny joke, his gaunt face almost jovial. Something about this old guy was just damn amusing. But then his laughter stopped. He reached over the bar, taking my hand and shaking it.
“The name’s Val. And, son, I sure am sorry.” What the fuck did he mean by that? He pushed his stool away from the bar then; standing fully upright he was maybe five foot two. A cigar was in his mouth as he looked in my direction-where had it come from?
“You can’t smoke in here, sir,” I started to tell him. But the first bit of ash had hit my bar before I got the words out of my mouth. He just stared at me, stared though me, before turning his attention to the door. One word was all I heard before my reality exploded: “BELFIGLIO!”
It was shouted, powerfully, from somewhere beyond the front door. My ears began to bleed as I was flung into the mirror behind the bar. With blurry vision I could see-spiders!?-pouring out of the sobbing man’s eyes instead of tears. He tried to scream, but he began vomiting webs instead. The drunk douche bags in suits began to melt. Their flesh just fell off their muscles, which in turn was being flayed away from the bone by unseen hands. The skinny faggot was literally falling apart: his jaw hit the floor as he tried to take a step forward, his body just falling to the floor in bloody chunks. I couldn’t even see the four self conscious bitches, just heard feminine cries of agony. Before the acute pain enveloped me, before my eyes went black with suffering, I watched as the old man dropped a few dollars onto the pile of rubble that was once my bar.
“They didn’t have to die like this,” I heard my broken voice whisper to the eviscerated body of the bartender. At least his corpse was still recognizable. Wouldn’t be an open casket, but his face was still intact. The man-no; men don’t act in this fashion; the boy-stood just inside the double doors, seething. He took a single step forward; I took a puff on my cigar. What was left of his tiny black heart detonated in his chest as his foot hit the ground.
“Valentine!” he screamed when his back hit the tile. “Father,” he whispered as life forever left him.
I knelt beside him, stroking the black hair that he liked to wear long, a pang of jealousy rippling though me as I saw my bald reflection in his black eyes.
“I am not your father,” I said as I extinguished my cigar in those black eyes, shutting them forever. “And you are not my son.”
Summer Rains
(Or I’m Depressing Even When I’m Drunk)
The rain began the moment she slammed the door in my face. Dark clouds just opened up, letting it all out. The gods were weeping. And this wasn’t just another summer shower. This was an icy downpour, the kind of rain that hurts. The kind that chills to the bone. The kind that reminds you you’re alive.
I slumped to the concrete, my ass landing on the now wet ground, my back resting against the wooden wall opposite her door. And I let the rain drench me, let the night sky swallow me up.
That door. That awful fucking red door. It was cold that night, but at least it hadn’t been raining, the night that we kissed for the first time. She had wanted to tell me something, something that she didn’t want everybody else to hear. So we stepped out onto the porch. And she leaned against that door, the one my sad eyes now stare at.
“Whatever you have to say better be good,” I said as I heard the door close. “It’s fucking freezing out.”
“The one who always makes fun of me for being cold is complaining about the cold?” she asked, laughter ringing in her voice. I just looked at her, shaking my head. She only laughed harder. After several minutes of silence, I cleared my throat.
“I don’t know how to say it…” and she trailed off, her green eyes staring anywhere but where I stood. I took a step forward.
“What? That you have a small crush on me? That you’re into me?”
“Not the words I would have used. But yes.”
“This isn’t high school. So you should have just said it.”
She wanted to protest, save face or something. But I didn’t let her. My lips were on hers in that instant, my body weight pushing her up against the door. I can’t remember how long we stayed like that. Just that we were both breathless when I finally let go.
My mouth twisted into a smile as I sat in the rain.
I heard thunder crack the instant the door hit the frame. Then the rain began, no build up, just a downpour. I felt like crying, that this would be the perfect time for it, but I couldn’t. All I could do was stare at the door, at the grey eyes that I could still see through it. The weight of it all forced me from my feet, onto the couch.
I just laid there, my eyes watching the ceiling. The sofa was the most comfortable thing in the world that night. Except for his arms. The first time he held me tight had been on this couch. Had been right fucking here.
I had thrown a party. The friends I had invited had invited their friends. He knew my roommate. So he was there. We had kissed briefly on the patio. Then walked back inside as if nothing had happened. He seemed distant once we were back inside. That quickly changed.
He kissed me. In front of everybody. Like that was what he was supposed to do. As if his lips were meant to be pressed up against mine. This wasn’t a quick closed mouth kiss either. It was passionate, emotional, violent. He wanted me to know just how badly he wanted me. So when he finally backed away and led me to the sofa, I collapsed into his arms.
Those arms wrapped around me and refused to let go. From them until the time that he left that morning, that is where his arms stayed, encircling me, protecting me. As I lay there, gazing up at the ceiling, I wished so badly that they were wrapped around me again.
But I was alone on my couch.
/> The rain turned viscous, each drop biting into me. It felt good, brining me back into reality, letting the memory of that first kiss pass. My body shivered, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from that god damned door.
Our first real fight had occurred on this porch. Right in front of that door. Right where I was sitting. We weren’t even dating yet. Just two people who happened to know each other. Yelling wildly into the night, our words cutting wounds into our already raw souls.
“It would be too fucking complicated,” she said, smoke from her cigarette dissipating into the cold morning. “We’re just too different.”
“Opposites attract,” I offered meekly. My arguments only got weaker from there.
“You’re so smart,” she whispered. Her green eyes were full of pain. I couldn’t hold her gaze. “And I’m not.”
I had no retort to that. She was right. Compared to her, I am a fucking genius. I could rattle off every philosophical theory to life there was. I thought on a level that most people only dream of. Yet, with all this supposed intelligence, I couldn’t convince her to go on one date with me. What’s the point of having brains if you can’t get what you want?
I began to shake in the rain, propped up against her balcony, shivering from the cold that resided in my chest.
My ceiling stopped entertaining me as I sat there. I was so fucking glad that my roommate wasn’t home. He would just try to cheer