50 Scenes From 50 Bathrooms

I began writing this awhile ago. I can't remember now who or what kicked it off but I sat down one night and wrote four scenes right in a row, all with addresses in different states. Since then I've added to it every so often and thought it would be fun to start posting them as I go. These are the first 7 I've finished. I'd like to say I'll hit 50 relatively soon but, considering my rather chaotic schedule lately (as well as my own staggering level of lethargy), that seems recklessly optimistic. And we all know how I feel about reckless optimism <grin>

So .... enjoy. And watch with space with cautious optimism instead.

es :)

p.s. By the way, all of these names and addresses have been plucked out of thin air. If, by some freakishly random chance, one of them is actually legit then, rest assured, these scenes have absolutely no basis in reality.

Christopher Chavarri (Greensburg, Pennsylvania)
Susan Feran and Rhiannon Katteran (Chicago, Illinois)
Heather Goodall (Ann Arbor, Michigan)
Chloe Lapps (Hicks, Louisiana)
Steven and Amy Lomas (Egypt, Mississippi)
Russell Smoldt (Priest River, Idaho)
Missy Casplan, Erin Sparlan and Renee Wilmont (Luther, Oregon)
Mark Roberts (Tuscaloosa, Alabama)
Louisa Powell (Milwaukee, Wisconsin)
Sam Marks (Chico, California) NEW!
Darlene Conley and Michelle Owen (Kissimmee Florida) NEW!

Heather Goodall
8765 Carpenter Boulevard
Ann Arbor, Michigan

22 years old. 22 years old. 22 years old.

This is all she can think of as she stares into the mirror. She stares at the dark circles edging her eyes, the washed out color, the cheekbones buried under countless nights of comfort eating.

22 years old.

How did I get to be this old? She wonders.

Downstairs Jacob is crying and Michael is shouting for her to come help. Jacob is three months old. The first time she held him in her arms she stared down at his angry little face, wondering why he wasn't quiet and sleepy like the babies in movies and on ER are when they're handed over to the new parents. Jacob cried, his face flashing in red and white, chin dimpling like an orange, fists shaking with rage.

Heather stared down at him and looked up at Michael. Michael smiled, squeezed her shoulder and tickled Jacob under his chin.

Heather kept thinking of the afternoon seven months earlier, when they'd both walked to the clinic and had almost made it through the door before Heather got cold feet and ran off, positive they should get married and keep the baby.

Now she just wants to have that moment back. To walk through that door. To have some different life. A childless, carefree existence.

"Heather, I could really use a hand down here!" Michael is making dinner. Jacob is proving to be a rather large distraction as he exercises his formidable lungs.

Heather leans over the sink, splashes some water on her face and pulls the plug, watching the water drain into a small whirlpool and finally into nothing. She thinks about the $2500 in her bank account and the beat up Ford Fiesta in the driveway. She thinks about Jacob's bedtime and wonders when Michael will pass out.

As she stares into the mirror again she realizes that sometimes the best plans are the ones you make up as you go along.

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Chloe Lapps
23 Cedar House Lane, Apt 2A
Hicks, Louisiana

"Momma! Momma!"

"Are you talking to me?" Felicity pops her head into the open bathroom door.

Chloe nods and holds up a lipliner, "Since when did you start wearing 'Ruby's Revenge'?"

Felicity shrugs, "It was on sale. Why are you calling me Momma?"

Another shrug. Chloe edges the door closed with her foot, "We're in the South now, might as well fit in."

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Christopher Chavarri
48 Pinnacle Crescent
Greensburg, Pennsylvania

Who would have thought this much blood could come out of one person?

Christopher stripped out his clothes, letting them fall onto the floor with a thick slap. He stared at the pile for a long moment, thinking about what he'd done, feeling his face break into a smile for the first time in ten years. He grabbed one of the trash bags he'd brought in with him and rolled the mess of fabric into the bag. The smell made him wince. It made him think of holding a fistful of sweaty pennies in his mouth. He coughed and set the bag to one side as he continued to strip down and threw out each piece of clothing until he was standing in front of the mirror completely naked. Some blood had seeped through his clothes and his pale skin was smeared with random slashes of red.

He smiled at his reflection, let his fingers trail through the smears, moving the color around on his skin. His fingers touched gently on the scar below his right elbow. He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts and memories already lining up in his mind. Once he got some sleep, the events of this evenng would herlad the end of these all-too-frequent moments of quiet horror.

Christopher focused his thoughts on the past few hours. Tried to relive the moment when he'd known exactly what was about to happen. Thoughts of powerful hands on his arms bore down on him. Christopher shook his head and walked towards the shower and turned the hot water on. He stepped into the hall and grabbed the mop and bucket from the kitchen, threw some bleach in the bottom and held it under the shower for a moment before mopping the floor and washing the sink. By the time he was done and had emptied the bucket into the toilet, the steam from the shower had filled the room.

He stepped into the shower and his chest tightened in the steam. He held his breath, closed his eyes and leaned into the spray. Water belted him in the face like a thousand tiny needles. He stayed there until his skin felt numb. When he moved away his face burned and throbbed.

He thought again of walking into that small greasy spoon diner he'd spotted from the highway. He saw himself waking, in, hands gliding over the polished counter as he made his way towards the back. He was only halfway down the counter when he'd spotted him.

Vincent Theodore Proda - Vic to his few friends - was shovelling forkfuls of meatloaf and gravy into his mouth. He never saw the slight, dark haired young man stop in his tracks and make a hasty retreat. He'd finished his meal, debated over whether or not to order a slice of chocolate cake and ultimately decided against it. He'd left a $3 tip and walked out the door. His hand was wrapped around the door handle of his 1983 Buick Skylark when he felt the brick hitting the back of his head.

Christopher grabbed the bottle of Neutrogena Shampoo and emptied it all over his body, working it into a rich lather that covered him from head to toe before weaving back beneath the spray. He opened his eyes after a moment and watched the dingy colored foam swirl down the drain.

He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wiped down the mirror above the sink. He grabbed his toothbrush and loaded it up with the toothpaste he'd bought this morning. A lifetime ago.

He scrubbed the thick white paste over his teeth and tongue, trying once again to wash away that awful phantom taste of blood, spit and dirt that had mixed into the foulest mud in his mouth. All these years later, that taste filled his mouth and nose too often to bear.

Christopher squeezed his eyes shut and brushed harder, trying to shake the thoughts away. But they had taken hold and were galloping away, taking him down that same gritty road one last time. Visions of the police flashed through his mind. Their wide eyed look and sneers they tried to hide behind their hands, pretending to cough. Then the doctors. Slightly more professional but still with that mocking disbelief.

One of them had been stripping off his latex gloves when he offhandedly asked, "How long have you been gay?"

Christopher had been lying in the fetal position, trying not to cry and failing miserably as he rasped, "I'm not."

Christopher rinsed his mouth out, gargled with Listerine and dried off, throwing the towel into the bag with the rest of it. He tied it closed and stood in front of the mirror again. His skin was pink from the heat of the shower and the fury of his scrubbing.

He leaned into the mirror until his forehad bumped the cool glass, all the time watching himself smile.

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Susan Feran and Rhiannon Katteran
2751 West 8th Street
Chicago, Illinois

I had my hand on the bathroom doorknob when Camilla grabbed me by the waist and plated an air kiss near my cheek. "I see you're already seeking out Rhiannon," she whispered in my ear, "Don't forget to stop by and check out the exhibition when you're done."

I offered up a nod and smiled as I turned to face her and take a moment to look at the party. Camilla had definitely done a good job promoting the event. Her loft apartment - which I had once called the most overpriced storage locker in Chicago - had been transformed into an art gallery packed with people walking around or standing in clusters. Costumed men and women circulated trays of champagne and wine.

"That's Damien," she pointed at a goateed man whispering to a wispy pink haired girl, "You'll have to meet him later. He's an absolute genius when it comes to wire sculptures."

I raised my eyebrows and grabbed a glass of normal looking wine from a passing tray carried by a woman dressed as a grape vine. "Is any of his stuff here?" I looked around the room.

"They're pieces, Susan, not 'stuff'," she pouted. "But no, his pieces won't be on exhibit until next month. He's bringing me his new collection in a few weeks," she smiled. "Tonight I'm just showing some of Rhiannon's more experimental pieces." She bestowed a patronizing yet not unpleasant smile on my and shooed me back towards the bathroom door, "Go on in, I told her you'd be dropping in to see her privately."

I knocked on the bathroom door, adding a whispered "It's me" as I turned the knob.

"C'mon in," Rhiannon's voice lilted through the door.

"Hey girl," Rhiannon was lying in the tub, surrounded by a thinning skin of bubbly foam. I'd only met Rhiannon a few times but she seemed totally at ease as she slid a peach washcloth over her face and down her shoulders. "Just cleaning up before I meet the masses," she smiled and picked up a smooth looking bar of soap the same shade of peach as the washcloth.

I nodded and lowered the lid on the toilet before sitting down.

"Did you see the pieces of mine Camilla set out?"

I shook my head, "No, I'm not much of an artsy type, really. I never got into the whole scene."

"Kind of fucked up that you're here then," she was working up a lather of shaving cream and spreading it over her propped up leg.

We sat in a moment of silence as she began to drag the razor over her shin and up her knee. As she shook the razor out in the bathwater she nodded towards a joint resting on the edge of Michelle's electric blue sink, "Smoke that," she finished her shin and started on her thigh, "Just blow the smoke towards me."

It didn't take very long before the air became thick with smoke and steam. I slumped against the back of the toilet, propping my own feet up on the small hamper that stood across from me.

Rhiannon had finished shaving and was stretching her legs out in the soapy, murky water. She had been talking about the purity of art, how the world was shit without it and how anyone who couldn't appreciate that was better off dead. Through my light buzz I felt offended, feeling as though my earlier comment about not being into art was being attacked.

I said nothing and by the time she was finished I had a raging case of cotton mouth. I liked Rhiannon but, honestly, art bored me. I like painitngs and drawings and all that but I could never really get into it. I didn't even really like pictures. The idea of capturing a moment in time scared some small but powerful part of my brain. I didn't even like watching cartoons. And most of Camilla's "artist" friends were always acting as though they were part of some worldwide never ending competition to see who could be the most fashionably morose and condescending. But Camilla's foray into the art world had one big advantage for me - brilliant drug contacts.

"Your bag is in the medicine cabinet," she was leaning forward, rubbing at her right foot with a pumice stone.

I got up and opened the cabinet. Rhiannon sold the best acid in the city. Camilla had arranged for me to pick up a ten strip of gel caps, for which I was grateful. "So why aren't you into the art scene?" Rhiannon looked at me and began scrubbing furiously at the heel of her left foot.

I shrugged and stuffed the acid into my pocket before depositing some crumpled bills onto the edge of the sink. "Artists always struck me as needlessly melodramatic," I cringed inwardly, realizing how that might sound, "No offense."

Rhiannon laughed and slowly splashed water across her body. "You have no idea how funny it is that you say that. I hate when people say 'no offense'. It's like they're admitting that they're not smart enough to express an opinion without being offensive. It's a bit of a pet peeve of mine," she leaned back and let her head slip beneath the water and came back up with her short blue-black hair plastered against her head like a skull cap, "But I like you." She ran her hands over her face and stood up, letting the water course down her thick, strong body.

I forced myself not to look away and hoped I wasn't blushing. Rhiannon's body was sturdy - stocky, even - and she held herself like a Greek goddess, chin tilted upward and her chest puffed out. She stood there for a moment, staring at me, before she finally stepped out of the tub and grabbed a soft, green towel. She wrapped it around her head and began rubbing furiously.

"All opinions are offensive," she said from under the towel, "apologizing for it is like strangling your soul."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and groan. Instead, I distracted myself by lighting a cigarette. Rhiannon rubbed the rest of her body down and wrapped herself in the towel. "You should really check out some of the work, though," she nodded towards the door and motioned for me to hand her my cigarette. I handed it to her and watched her take a long drag, "You should especially look at the painting near the fireplace," she exhaled.

"Camilla has a fireplace?"

Rhiannon shrugged, "It's just a plaster one she had made for tonight, totally not real, but it's not meant to look real. It's art."

I felt the same sharp tone in her last statement and decided to bail, "Okay, yeah, I'll have a look on my way out. Thanks again for the caps."

"No problem," she was already pulling her clothes off the hook on the wall, "Just give me a call if you need anything else."

As I made my way through the loft I swung by the fireplace. Rhiannon was right, it wasn't meant to look real. The entire thing looked as though it had been made of marshmallows. In the center, small green and blue lights flickered on and off. Right next to it there was a large painting. I stepped closer and took a long, hard look. Slashes of silver interrupted a muddy looking maroon and crimson background. Lip prints, disembodied fists and feathery wisps in varying shades of grey circled out from the center.

Nice.

My eyes travelled down to the small rectangle of ivory that denoted its title and asking price. I felt myself smile and found myself once again hoping I wasn't blushing. The card read, 'None Taken, $750"

Amy shoved Steven away from the sink with her hip as she scrubbed her teeth, a snaking line of white toothpaste drooling down her chin.

Steven grunted and stepped to one side, trying to avoid watching his wife spit and then dip her head under the cold water faucet, lips and tongue tickling the edge. He tried not to watch but it was like witnessing a train wreck or FOX News - you knew you shouldn't watch, that by watching you were allowing your brain to be tormented by the pictures about to be seared into it but you just can't help yourself. And so you watch. You take in every detail, the twisted unfathomableness of it all building until your brain begins to sob and scream and twist around inside your head so violently that you're forced to turn away.

And that is exactly what happened to Steven. He saw his wife's kiss-me pink lips dancing around the edge, the tip of her tongue loping out, scraping against the mineral deposits and mysteriously crusty faucet debris of unknown origin. He could feel the metal scraping his own lips and he shuddered, twisting his head away from the gruesome display.

Amy spit her last mouthful of water out and stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I'm off to bed," she planted a kiss on Steven's shoulder and he quelled a shudder.

Steven became reoriented on his shaving and tried to keep the shrill tremor of disgust out of his voice as he asked, "Aren't you going to rinse?"

Amy paused and leaned over, scanning the windowsill that served as a makeshift medicine cabinet since theirs had come crashing down the previous week. "We're out of Oral B," she frowned, "and I can't stand that brown Listerine shit you use."

Another kiss, a quick smile from the ferrous lips and she was out the door.

As Steven finished shaving, he began to entertain the idea of having a affair.

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Russell Smoldt
92A Rising East Boulevard
Priest River, Idaho

Russell closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Martin had given him an entire bath set for his birthday and he relished the smell and feel of the lavender bath oil as the water slid over his skin. He took a long hit off his joint and sighed. Moments like this were why he put up with life.

Russell's life wasn't especially depressing, just boring. Every day seemed the same no matter how hard he tried to change it. He got up, went to work, came home and spent the rest of his evening watching TV and sucking down a bottle of wine. He'd changed jobs four times in the last eight months but they all felt depressingly similar.

Maybe I should kill myself, he thought as he tapped the joint out in his ashtray and slid deeper into the silky water. He thought about it for a moment and then filed the thought away.

Not right now.

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Missy Casplan, Erin Sparlan and Renee Wilmont
109 West Upper Street
Luther, Oregon

Missy stumbled into the bathroom at Hazard and slipped into an open stall. She'd come to the club with her best friends Renee and Erin but they'd been separated during the last song. She sighed and shook her head, hoping it would help to clear her mind but instead it sent her Vodka and Red Bull soaked brain slipping inside her skull. Missy smiled to herself and stifled a drunken giggle as she peed.

In the next stall, the door slammed open and a body hit the wall before the door slammed shut again, its lock making a thick snapping noise. Missy's eyed widened and she leaned over and peered under the stall door. Four feet. Two strappy sandals and two boots with Goth-grrrl thick soles.

Missy's foggy brain drawled, Erin has boots like that, a second before she heard Erin's whimper soft voice floating through the air.

"Help me with your bra," Erin's whisper, the smacking of lips, the whisper of skin rubbing against skin.

A soft grunt and then Renee's voice, "Get your pants down."

Missy looked again at the empty space at the bottom of the door and saw Erin's faded blue jeans crumple on top of her boots, Erin's feet stepping apart. Missy wondered if she was wearing underwear.

She listened to them grinding against each other. A furtive fuck that left Missy breathless after their marathon fast climax. More noises of mouths on skin.

"This is making me crazy," Erin's angry hiss. In her mind's eye, Missy could see her friend's face. The angry sneer that curled her upper lip so cruelly she looked like a pint sized Elvis.

"I know," Renee's voice was muffled and Missy imagined her lips moving, brushing against Erin's clavicle, "But we can't let Missy know."

Missy's jaw dropped open as she listened to Erin murmuring agreement. There was a moment of silence and then the quiet sounds of Erin pulling her jeans up and Renee adjusting her skirt. As they stepped out of the stall the rest of the noise in the bathroom began to fade back into Missy's awareness.

She took a deep breath and waited a few moments longer, giving them enough time to pass by the sinks (would they wash their hands?) and leave. When Missy stepped out she breathed a sigh of relief as she scanned the bay of sinks and didn't see them.

Missy leaned over a sink and slowly washed her hands. Erin and Renee were gay. That realization might have been more shocking if she didn't also have to come to grips with the fact that they didn't want her to know. She thought back over the years of their friendship trying to remember if she had ever given the impression that she disliked homosexuals. She couldn't think of anything.

As she dried her hands under the shockingly loud air dryers, she turned to face the mirror, trying on several "I Know Nothing" expressions before deciding that she'd stop at the bar and get a double shot of vodka in her next Red Bull.

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Mark Roberts
4810 Skyline (Room 342)
Tuscaloosa, Alabama

He leans out of a hotel bathroom window, smoking a joint and watching the sky. Tomorrow he'll go to his grandmother's funeral. He'll cry and wish he were somewhere else while his mother dabs her eyes and daydreams of the family fortune that he knows has already been squandered on cheap hooch, bingo halls and trashy treasures from QVC.

There's a bottle of vodka chilling in the sink he filled with cold water and ice from the machine on the ground floor. He nurses it out of a plastic cup and takes a long pull from the joint. The sun is setting and the sky is watery streaks of color that reminds him of a bruise. He watches the gold fade to purple, then blue, then just the still black of night.

His eyes burn and he steps away from the window, out of the tub peppered with ash and footprints and pours another generous measure of vodka into his cup. He remembers the cheap wine his grandmother gave him when he was a kid visiting in the summer. She'd sit with him on the front porch, watching the neighborhood slow down for the night. She'd talk to the neighbors as they passed by and, once they had gone, she'd tell him the secrets she knew.

He finished the bottle, fell asleep in the tub and woke up the next day with the sun in his eyes, a stiff neck and a bad disposition.

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Louisa Powell
87 W. Water Street
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

I'm never drinking again.

A hangover I can deal with but this horrible stomach grinding is another matter altogether.

There's a book on the edge of the sink I've never seen before and there's a moment of confused panic before I remember that William is sleeping on the couch and is a dedicated toilet reader.

The William Situation. I put my head in my hands and sigh. It's too early, my head is too fucked and I just can't think about it right now.

I finish up, flush twice and wash my hands before filling the sink and dunking my head in. As I'm drying my face the smell of coffee seeps in from under the door and I slap some concealer under my eyes. It's Saturday morning (does 11.30 still count as morning?) and I can feel a change in the air. I nod at my reflection, construct a confident looking smile and open the door, ready to deal with William.

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Sam Marks
967 Orange Street
Chico, California

The minute you start to really lose it, people back way from you. If you pay attention, sometimes you can even watch it as it happens. For Sam Marks it had been a Wednesday night in August.

The sun had been beating into the ground for weeks. That Wednesday the sky threatened rain. Bloated clouds hung so thick it looked like cotton. Sam had been up since Monday and his eyes stung. There were moments in the day when the buzzing in his head stretched out into static and he thought he might be asleep. But when he would turn his head to look through the rusty screen door he didn't see any kind of dream world - just the same small town - the same dead end street.

He couldn't tell when he blinked.

Caitlin had left him on Friday. Ben had come over on Sunday to get her stuff. Sam hadn't said anything as he watched Ben take boxes out the front door. It didn't matter. None of it did.

"Hey", Ben had shrugged with the box in his arms, "Ain't personal, ya know?"

In the kitchen he nodded, pulled out a piece of bread and smeared some greasy looking butter onto it. Shoved it into his mouth in two bites and twisted open a beer.

"You know how she is," Ben swallowed and turned to leave. He paused at the door, forced friendliness into his voice "Don't forget about the WWE Bad Ass Brawl Friday night. Bring some beer. I'll get a pizza in for everyone."

Sam watched him walk down to the street and shove the box into his car. Sam knew in a few months they would have this same exchange, except then it would be him piling boxes into his clapped out Dodge Duster. Ben wouldn't give a shit. He'd be watching Girls Gone Wild and drinking PBR which Sam worked around him, avoiding his gaze.

Caitlin was like that. They all were. Living the same lives over and over again, never getting it rights and stumbling towards death.

Caitlin worked in a nursing home. She would come home stinking of sweat and disinfectant.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," she'd say with a mouthful of mac n' cheese, "It's so god damn disgusting. They shit the bed all the time. They just sit there, shitting all over themselves and eating jello."

Sam's mother died from Alzheimer's. Not in the same nursing home, but there was no real difference. She died with drool on her chin, fear in her eyes and someone like Caitlin cleaning her up.

Three days later he had run out of food and beer so he walked down to the Safeway and picked up some frozen food, a case of beer and five packs of Marlboros. On the way back he passed Big Als Drive In and saw Ben's car. Saw Derek's too. He wondered for a minute how long it would take before Caitlin stuck her claws into him. Wondered if he would be around to give a shit.

Dylan noticed him first. Whistled with his fingers in his mouth.

"Sam!" Derek's voice cut through the early evening air, "Get your ass over here."

Sam paused, weighed it up in his mind. Ben turned then. Sam saw him flash a look toward Caitlin but she was oblivious, talking on her cell and flicking her cigarette out the open car window while she ignored her food. Sam walked toward them, watched Derek and Ben exchange a look.

"Hey," Sam set the bags down, felt lighter than air, like he could float right away. Some sort of insane rapture.

Derek eyed up the bags, gave an approving nod. "Looks like you're having a good time."

Sam didn't say anything - just shrugged. He watched them all for a long moment. Derek was pulling out a pack of Newports. Ben was chewing on a fistful of greasy fries. Caitlin finally clocked him and Sam took a strange pleasure from the look on her face. She was clearly holding court. Sam watched as a her usual gaggle of friends came over from where they had been waiting at the front of the car while Caitlin was talking.

Sam laughed, only partly to himself, "I think this is against the rules."

Derek frowned. "What the fuck are you talking about, dude?" Derek stamped out his cigarette and took a step closer, lowered his voice, "Are you fucked up?"

Sam let a smile crack across his face, let his white teeth show and his eyebrows pop up, "Not anymore." Sam edged a little closer, dropped his voice to a husky whisper, "Don't you ever get tired of this, Derek? Don't you ever get tired of this greasy little life? Tired of getting stamped into the dirt, working your ass off for a life you never wanted?"

Derek took a step back, looked over his shoulder at Ben then back at Sam. He forced a laugh then, "Dude, you're whacked."

Sam just shook his head, "It's all bullshit, man." He waved at Ben and raised his voice, "Fucking bullshit!"

Derek took another step away, arms at his side, fingers splayed out, "Okay, Sam. Give me a call when you sleep it off, yeah?"

Sam looked again at Caitlin, thought about everything that had happened, everything that would happen. It was all just so god damn pointless.

Caitlin gave him the evils and folded herself out of the car then, came around the back and stood next to Ben. Sam watched her hiss something into his ear, saw the girls behind her laugh. Saw one of them - Tami with the pink jeans and big hair - snap her gum and laugh.

Ben nodded his head, Caitlin's lips still moving, and he took a step forward. Sam smiled again, damn near laughed out loud when he noticed Ben puffing out his chest, swinging his arms a little wider. Reminded Sam of nature shows he watched on late night cable. Animals do that - a display of power or something. He remembered laughing when he watched it then.

Now he couldn't contain the laugher. He doubled over, slapped his thighs and howled. "God damnit, Benny, don't you fucking see it? Don't you see what a god damn puppet you are?"

Sam took a step closer and Ben paused.

"Do you remember," Sam stepped closer still, until he could have reached out and touched him, "Do you remember working the Drive Thru at McDonald's?"

Ben squinted, nodded slowly, "Yeah?"

"Remember that alarm that would buzz if someone was waiting in the lane for more than a minute? Remember how Laura would bitch about the long wait times? How she's fucking freak any time someone had to wait more than 60 fucking seconds for their food?"

Ben nodded.

"She never mentioned the food, do you remember that? She never cared that we were busting our asses to deliver stale reheated burgers and nasty oversalted fries. She only cared that they had to wait. Hell, even the customers only cared if they had to wait. They wanted their shit as fast as possible - they couldn't wait to get food that had been sitting around since that morning. They didn't fucking care - as long as they got it."

Ben blinked and shrugged, "What's your fucking point?"

"Everyone here - it's the same fucking thing." Sam shook his head and swallowed. "Jesus, Ben, is this the life you wanted? Or is it just the one that came along first?"

Ben didn't say anything for a long moment, then Caitlin shouted "What the fuck are you two faggots doing over there?"

Ben's right hook caught Sam square on the jaw.

Sam felt the pain but couldn't let it register. He just looked at them - at all of them - and shook his head again. He turned, picked up his bags and walked away.

That night in the bathroom mirror he touched the bruise on his face. Winced as his fingers brushed against it.

But the whole time, he was grinning into the mirror.

Finally awake, he thought, finally awake.

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Darlene Conley and Michelle Owen
1023 Eagle Pointe
Kissimmee, Florida

There's nothing worse than having an entire Thanksgiving table full of relatives staring directly at you. My face burned and I grabbed Darlene by the arm and stood up. David caught my hand in his, and I leaned down, choked out "I'll take care of Darlene."

I couldn't meet anyone's stare as I hauled Darlene away from the table and practically threw her into the living room.

Darlene slumped against the wall, grabbed a bowl of nuts and began pushing them around.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I wanted to strangle her.

Darlene shrugged as she poked through the nuts, picking out the pine nuts, leaving the brazils. "What? You heard the shit Dad was talking. Doesn't that piss you off?"

I sighed, "That's not the point, Darlene."

She shoved a carefully selected handful into her mouth, "What's the big deal? You were going on about being pro-choice anyway"

I grabbed her by the shirt, sending the bowl of nuts flying across the oatmeal colored carpet I'd had laid a month before and shoved her down the hall and into the bathroom.

I pressed into her against the rim of the sink and her face contorted. I leaned in close enough to kiss her.

"That's not the fucking point," I hissed, "It wasn't your place to tell them what I'd done. It wasn't any of your god damn business. "Jesus, Chelle, you were, what, nineteen then? You and David were just married - living in that fleatrap apartment. You never could have raised a kid there. They'll understand - they'll forgive you."

I sighed and sat down on the toilet. "You just don't get it."

Darlene smoothed her hands over her shirt, "No, I fucking don't. I really think you're over-reacting. Mom won't care and Dad," she shrugged, "He'll get over it."

I stared at the floor and bit back the tears, "Like I give a shit what he thinks."

"So what the fuck then?"

I leaned over and put my head in my hands, "I don't care about Mom and Dad," I whispered, "It's David. I never told him."

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