Oil Spill Story

 It was the same year as that giant oil spill 
in the Gulf of Mexico, when Obama was still 
in his first term as President. 

I had just returned from living in Georgia, 
where I'd meant to reside on a farm indefinitely 
but 
my employer sent me away 
after two un-controversial weeks. 

My friend Jeff let me stay in his 
rented cottage and I resumed 
in helping to pay the rent. 

Shortly after, my high school crush, 
a shy, sexy blonde by the name 
of Jessica, started making advances 
in what they refer to nowadays 
as breadcrumbing. 

I lusted for her, and my lust was full of hope, 
yet time after time, on the brink of intimacy, 
she cancelled the deal with some lame excuse. 

It took three or four months of that shit, 
a suffering largely to my credit, until I'd 
finally just flirt with any other woman 
who'd struck me as receptive. 

Well, in short enough order, 
the same deadends were produced, 
and even Jeff, who'd warned me 
against her many times in the past, 
began harassing me in a similar kind 
of way. So. 

I moved back in with my mother 
before repairing a friendship -- 
very much by accident --with 
my friend Casey from high school. 

Casey lived with Travis and Lauren 
and the four of us always had some 
chance I thought -- even though Jessica 
was once again in the periphery. 

See: Casey had actually dated Jessica 
for several years until one day the relationship 
became untenable as inexplicably as it started, 
but they remained cordial and she'd call him 
when she wanted weed. 

And there she was again. 
I slept on the livingroom 
floor, doing odd jobs for Casey's 
parents 
to pay for cigarettes and the like, 
and except for the grave and 
my mother's, I had nowhere 
to go. 

Well, it was about this time 
the giant oil spill took place, 
viscous and choking the water 
and the news: dead fish, dead birds, 
dead everything, a site of 
unforgivable stupidity. 

The apartment became haunted with suggestion. 

We were effectively polite but very rarely 
had conversations -- four people over 
the hump of the mid 20s, too old 
to be superficial, too young to make 
skilled commitments. 

And in the end I'd eaten more poison than food. 
I couldn't get work. No one understood 
my problem. Following some drama 
colored by suicide wishes and the hospital, 
I returned home to Casey's 
without any shoes. 

The four of us said very little. 
And some days later 
I retreated, 
back to my mother and the grave. 

****