This week, Andrew likes the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His parents are relieved that his Bieber phase seems to have ended; last week, every time they got in the car, Andrew would say, “De-spa-ci-to.” And so they would listen to “Despacito” on repeat.
“I have never been able to understand why Americans need to make sure trailing traffic knows that they voted for Clinton, alternatively want to put Clinton in jail, or just really want to highlight the difference between heritage and racism.”
There is a certain passivity and convenience embodied both in the physical experience of train riding and in the indifferent machines themselves. Suspended between origin and destination: mandated leisure.
“My eyes darted between the two security cameras on the roof. Despite feeling cynical lately about the effectiveness of government, I had a feeling that these cameras were both working and monitored around the clock. I felt so patriotic.”
I’m always quick to spell out or clarify my name when it’s asked for. Call it my preemptive strike against the flicker of uncertainty in the barista’s eyes or the note of hesitation in the agent’s voice.
“It was like my whole world filtered through a telescope when I knew you, all I needed was to look your way to think, yes, everything else is far and unimportant.”
“What I wanted to do was ask her if she knew how good she had it: white and pretty and well-to-do and having friends made by her parents from the very beginning.”
“You’ve said I remind you of those deep water high stress fish: cakey eyes, headlights that make sense in pitch nothing but when taken to surface explode.”
The first stone was one I knew. Flaking and grey and dusty. A driveway stone – from my driveway. Who breaks a person’s dining room window with a stone from that same person’s driveway?
