I liked to come
quietly, the whole house asleep. I enjoyed it under my pillow, the fan and the cricket choir, focused on transcendence instead of a smile for cash, another grin in tractor trailer shade, cut grass at the rest stop staining my jeans we laundered in Monday Wash, the roomies enjoying shiraz, fancy crackers, a night free from bad tippers and the shame of men too horny to fake their names, wedding bands still on, slipping inside if they paid extra upfront. I liked making like I was a silk-suited extra in a classic film flickering the flood wall I strolled by most Friday nights, on my way to the boat ramp, to jailbait the daddies smoking spliffs, sharing beers so cold I’d belch all over their half masts. Most men liked that idea. Most men didn’t want to see through the act, through the pain calloused palms caress, biting over undershirts, even choking, their softest spots opened like tunnels most men didn’t want to know. The house welcomed the quiet I came into, and there, still as a centipede in a whirl of fans and light snoring, I could come upon myself, remember I too had desire to touch myself just for the fun of it, the ruin the devil calls boring, but whatever, I let it lull me into comfort and then, yes, the quiet.
Known
The only gay guy in town was known as Stuart per the pharmacist caught pants off behind Taco Bell, said pants flapping like tennis shoes over the power line. It wasn’t a lie. The pharmacist told officers Stuart had jumped him from behind, took his wallet and was tall, like a swimmer, with greasy brown hair, curly sometimes, pretty sure he was white, but maybe not one hundred percent, it was always dark when they met every other Thursday under the low maple cornering the parking lot and the alley. The pharmacist offered to pick him from a lineup Deputy Mullins would never form. He knew Stuart too, knew the mole on his left thigh darkened every winter, when Stuart retreated, the deputy watching for him at St. Nick’s, at the Advent Parade, the tree lighting, any flicker that resembled Stuart’s eyes inside the sweaty ohs they drew in his patrol car, often on the hood at the overlook, playing with his cuffs. Playing at getting caught. Stuart got a last name? the state patrolman asked, swirling his flashlight under the dumpster, missing the deputy commit obstruction with his elbow in the doctor’s ribs, a straightening up when they noticed, mere yards away, in the large window overlooking the drive thru, my visor obscuring my eyes, curls twisted into a knot under the velcro band. None I know of, sir. Not sure it’s a real name. This is what I gave them: not the real, but a memory: a town with one gay guy, its Taco Bell open past midnight.
Regulars
An unknown man was found dead
in pine grove off State Route 93:
Police have no suspects
But all regulars knew the rail conductor murdered last week and said nothing to or about the state trooper who’d been wandering too far from his unmarked car, crossing the meadow with his cigarette, badge hidden, too easy with his Hello, too interested in names we came here to avoid. Under an older balsam drifted with snow, I whistled twice and the other men turned, straight to me, pants and jackets zipped, belts buckled. I spotted the father of a former classmate, a preacher at the Freewill when I still knew their name, drawing his pistol from his coat pocket, a glistening intrusion into the ermine afternoon. Then, a rifle, an ax, two crows, shotguns against legs and no one made eye contact until the cop parked in the corner spot, locked his sidearm in the trunk. Comfortably inside our choice, I nodded east, west, the men scattering, threading briars petaled by pop cans, socks, plastic bags, a torn jockstrap the preacher stuffed up his sleeve.
Originally from the farm valleys of the west Appalachian foothills, Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. A poet, storyteller, Madonna mega-fan/podcaster, and information professional, Ben is the author of the collections It Was Never Supposed to Be (Variant Literature,) Twang (ELJ Editions) and Stiff Wrist (fourteen poems,) along with the chapbooks Sagittarius A* and Dead Uncles. He co-founded and helps run the Poetry Stacked series at the University of Cincinnati and co-hosts the MLVC Podcast. His work has appeared in Poet Lore, Copper Nickel, Florida Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Poetry, and other publications. His favorite historical feud is Mariah Carey vs Jennifer Lopez, a truly 21st Century occurrence that reminds us how so much conflict arises from simply not knowing her.
