"They're like mosquitoes," he says of his parents, "they suck your blood and then they die... And you're left with this irritating swelling; inevitably the residual effect of everything they did and said to you, good and bad, that results in all that is fucked and twisted and sick as shit about how you think... No - How you feel."
He pauses. Ashes out his Dunhill, and rips the seal of his juice drink. Always Presidents Choice.
He continues.
"See, I don't believe that we think. I believe there is no such thing as thinking. We only feel and then act in accordance to those feelings. It's all semantics. Cuz thinking is merely a synonym for feeling. Even facts. We don't think of facts, we just repeat them after we learn them. And learning's just hearing.
Anyways, words mean nothing. They're make believe."
The wind howls. The flurries of snow no longer doddle around us, now sweeping against my cheek in little bites.
"But, that's another lesson in life's little scheme." He coughs. His throat, horse.
I'm not really looking at his face, but I can see his expression in the way his voice sounds. I look at the snow on the roots of the tree below us and wonder if it'll stay packy like that, clinging to the naked oak. "That's not real juice. I mean, there's no nutritional content, " I say.
"Hair of the dog my friend." He stares me down. "Listen. She's not worth it, trust me. Her name's fucking Kaylee. Hold her hand, and she'll snap like a twig with a weak name like that. What does she believe in? Chupa Chups and acetone?
Your parents rather you date Wonderbread? Fine. I get that. We're all a bunch of fucking redneck homosexual incestuous bigots. But at least date a girl- Someone with strength. With will."
There's a long pause. My nose is running onto my lip and it tastes salty.
"I like her."
He shakes his head. He doesn't believe me one bit.
"She's okay, really." I repeat myself.
"Don't just do it cuz you think you have to. You can't fuck yourself cool Tom."
I finally look up at him. Glare at him.
"Don't look at me like that," he barks, "I don't look for it - that Malcom X 'cool pose.' I don't check my swagger in the mirror, or whatever they're calling it.'"
At that, all I'm thinking is how he's right. He's cool by nature. That's probably why he's cool. My head jumps thoughts and I flinch, "You just said words are meaningless And now you're judging the girl's name. Something that was put on her."
"That's different."
My eyes say, "how?"
"Names aren't words."
The shake of my head says, "explain."
Begrudgingly he begins,"Names are a person's soul in sound. In calling. Names say something, whether a person acts like or unlike what it evokes. Names tell something about a person, about who they're fucking father is. Names like Samuel, Jubilee, Max, Marcus. Tennessee fucking Williams - now that's a name!
...You don't want a breaking twig Tommy. You want 50 years in 16. You want a tree."
"A tree?"
"A force of nature."
I nod. He smiles big and I can't help but feel warm in this negative 15. It is, afterall, something I don't see often.
I came to the right buddy for advice. And I think he likes that, the way it makes him feel. And the thing is, I didn't even have to ask. He just knew.
And I think to myself: 'he's my friend, but he feels more like my brother.'
***
*Stories in fifteen minutes by
xo Lo*
If I could name apartment #9 anything? Tennessee Parton.
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