MORE SKELETONS THAN DISCIPLES
“They say they want the whole truth—the unabridged story. Uncut like good coke. I smoke a cigarette and absorb the anticipation like enacting photosynthesis—converting attention into energy. I take measured sips of beer. Froth gets in my beard; I wipe it with my sleeve. They want the full story but I don’t know if I can deliver. Because who’s to say my story’s the full story? But still—I have no problem disseminating untruths as long as it serves to, like, elevate myself. Lies can be transcendental. We smoke a joint and my head’s in disarray from the drinks that flooded the day. Thoughts are fragmented—shards—disjointed and practically incoherent. It’s amazing I can even talk—it’s amazing I can retain and process information—but here I am. Not every miracle has to be turning water into wine; sometimes being present’s miraculous enough to instill belief in some kind of God.
“‘It’s nothing,’ I say, ‘It’s not even that interesting.’ ‘C’mon—just tell us.’ ‘Fine. Since you won’t let it go: I was in the liquor store getting beer and cigarettes, waiting in line, when some guy barreled in. He had a gun and was screaming about money. It was instantaneous: one minute I was on the precipice of drunken bliss; the next I was on the verge of death.’ ‘It happens that quick, huh?’ Chris asks. ‘We’re suspended over the abyss by fragile strings,’ Rick adds. ‘I was stunned, y’know? What the hell do you do in that situation? The poor kid behind the counter shit himself. I swear I smelled it—it was pungent.’ ‘Gnarly.’ ‘And I guess the robber just, like, forgot I was there. Maybe they didn’t see me. There’s probably some adrenaline and, like, tunnel vision when you conduct a robbery.’
“‘There must be no better feeling,’ Chris says. ‘That’s fucked up,’ Rick says. ‘I’m not saying I’d do it.’ ‘When I noticed he didn’t notice me, I knew I had to intervene.’ ‘That’s noble of you.’ ‘I grabbed a bottle off the shelf and swung at his head. It shattered and he collapsed, dropping the gun. I fell on him. A struggle ensued. The cops were called. In that struggle, I got this shiner. That’s what happened.’ ‘No shit?’ ‘No shit.’ They look at me with palpable veneration—a reverence scumbags like us aren’t used to being allocated—I can’t help basking in it. And, between you and me, there is some truth to that story. I did buy cigarettes and beer. I was on the precipice of bliss. But, later that evening, I was so drunk I tripped and hit my face on my coffee table. But why should they know that? I bet even Jesus had more skeletons in his closet than disciples in his clique. So I sleep just fine at night. Eff-why-eye.”
“I see…” his therapist says, wide-eyed and regretting asking how he sleeps at night in the first place. “Maybe a prescription isn’t the move, then…”
by Joshua Rodriguez
Joshua Rodriguez is a writer living in Tijuana, Mexico. He has previous published with Door is A Jar Magazine, Expat Press, FIVE:2:ONE magazine, Silent Auctions Magazine, Black Flowers Journal Vol. 3, Heavy Feather Review, Purple Wall Stories, Sledgehammer Lit, and Loud Coffee Press. His novella, 'FAMINE: Get the Hell Outta Here While You Still Can’, is out now via Alien Buddha Press.