“Gotta hit it. Deliver these drunchies,” I said, untangling my earbud cords.

“Wait—where do you live?”

“Out west. Why?”

“By yourself? Housemates?”

“Housemate.”

“What’s your rent?”

I told him.

“Well is he leaving any time soon? Do you think you’d want to share an apartment?”

Oh boy.

“I don’t think so, man. Sorry.”

“Well OK,” he said, looking so small and sad. Mousey face contracting around its snout, hunched back hunching.

I turned to leave.

Turned back.

“What about Jerry?” I asked. “Can’t you crash with him?”

“Jerry?” he said. “Oh no. Jerry died in oh nine.”

3

ICED-OUT HOMIE

May 2018

Sure I was a lil confused when my phone dinged for a pickup at the Vans store on Walnut.

Didn’t know Vans slanged food, or that Postmates did kicks.

But didn’t bat an eye. I hit accept. I did as I was told.

Ankle a softball since I ate shit last week, biking back from the beer spot, sixer in tow. To celebrate the arrival of my one-off construction gig check, all of which went to backlogged rent to the roomie.

Not even Postmating.

Going 5 m.p.h. in a light drizzle, turning onto 41st off of Haverford.

Getting distracted by a posse of youngins wheelying past on dirt bikes.

Looking right when turning left.

Before hitting the trolley tracks and doing a slo-mo somersault.

The slowest ever crash-out.

It had been two weeks and the Advils I was railing daily weren’t doing much.

But shit bro. Had to do what I had to.

Refilled my smartwater bottle at the filtered tap at the Shake Shack oasis I was posted at and hit it.

•

Editor bae wasn’t responding to my emails.

To my texts.

As of a week ago: voicemail.

She’d wanted to change this, rewrite that, and nix every part about ex bae. I hadn’t been sure, but then just did what she said to.

Just doing what they said to was never the move, I had yet to learn.

We were seven months and twenty rewrites in.

Every rewrite the last, till she’d submit it to her agent-boss and we’d both get rich.

Till we’d become the ultimate power couple.

•

After navigating past two police blockades for an anti–Proud Boys march, I finally found a sign to lock my bike to.

Turned out the pickup was shoes.

SK8-Hi’s, lit concrete grey / street-sign yellow colorway. And the fancy ones that cost a hundo instead of sixty-five.

My size.

“Guess you could just nab em, huh,” the cashier, pretty baby-faced blond boy with surfer locks, said.

I hadn’t considered this. But then did, looking down at my discolored, misshapen ankle.

Coulda used these hi-tops when I skidded out, honestly.

“Yeeeah, but then I’d have to quit.”