Mi Amor

With his jailors enjoying their midday nap, he continued to search for a Great Escape.

The sleet slapped his dirty glass door and began another barrage of attacks.

ugh

Larry hadn't foreseen this disastrous turn of events and his heart dropped at the realization of the message those stinging welts left; his baked in excuse to go out and booze with his buddies was dashed.

He turned on a sore rump and stared at his dirty, phlegm dried computer screen. He clicked to his Augean stable of "favorites" and thought about perusing a free tube site. For an instant a sore member throbbed and he caught a whiff of dried spit, like bad breath, and thought better of it. Winter weather made him amorous.

He wanted to booze. Football was about to be on and he had spent entirely too much time with his family. Don't get it wrong, Larry loved his family. His family consisted of his beautiful, blonde wife who somehow disputed time and motherhood to keep her tight, firm body of youth and his precious son. Brexton: The manifestation of all that is love and peace and innocence and beauty. On the good days. Other times it was the other side of that psychedelic coin- ignorance, maelstroms, and uncommunicated misery, a regular bad trip.

Larry did a pretty decent job at heading a household. Like the leader of a company, Larry was well versed in the expectations that his shareholders (and the general public that consisted of corporate raiding mother in laws) shouldered upon him. His job requirements left for his own trappings a lot of stress and a little time. Between a full time job that required vigor, alacrity and a pinch of passion and a family that consisted of a female and a baby, he was left to legislate the little shit that his committee of said woman and child could not seem to formulate or agree upon when he returned home. Everyday his son would wake, don his most comfortable jammies, and proceed to filibuster his mother for the eight hours Larry was at work so that when he came home it was up to Larry to execute the needs of the house. After laundry, dishes, and cooking, Larry had no desire to delve into his real life's work and passion and instead gave in to the loving embrace of resistance. That sultry bitch.

During this ice storm, though, our life-weary patriarch was especially downtrodden. He wasn't afforded the luxury his work release program usually gave him and instead spent the entire spell in his apartment cell. He turned his heat on in the hopes of recreating a comfortable, cozy environment, like those of which he remembered fondly from network television shows of his youth, in order to relax the time away but, instead, he induced upon his person, which is to say prisoner, the condition of claustrophobia. Dirty clothes soaked his apartment and rose from the floor, ankle deep, and the inappropriately hot environment compounded the stagnant feeling. He smelled his dried spit hand again.

Ew, Mildew. He thought. Ugh. I need to go out.
A rustle from inside Brexton’s room closed this window of opportunity and Larry cleared his history tabs and silently replaced her Jergen’s lotion, lest he be caught with any contraband.
It was 4:00 pm and Larry’s day was effectively over. Lock down. Chicken pot pie at 5:00 pm. TV at 6 pm. TV until 9pm and then ‘Lights Out’. He would then be lucky for the whipping of ice crops against his walls then, for if it weren’t for that distraction to break the dark silence, he might have to confront a harsh reality; he was on a voluntary death row with his Resistance his Executioner.



Jonathan Gonnet