Category: Reserved

  • Wish You Were Here

    Wish You Were Here

    I am the proud father of several small plants, a couple of medium sized plants, two fake plants, and one big plant. And all of them are dying—even the fake ones. I water them with spicy Tamarindo Vodka. Is that wrong? It could be worse—at least they go out happy. Pink Floyd serenades them as they wither. If I knew I was about to die, I’d want Vodka and ‘Wish You Were Here’ instead of Pennington plant food and faucet water. Death is quiet. It’s better to go out hungry than silent. But my babies don’t get either. This is the only voice they hear:

    Two weeks ago, Chris from MVP Doors brought his dad to fix my balcony door after my neighbor called to complain for the seventieth time in seven months. I thought she was complaining because of my extracurriculars. But no. It was my door. I offered them water—not Tamarindo Vodka—but they might as well have been drunk. For two weeks my door slid like a credit card in the crease of a fat neck, but also sounded like it too. The lady just never stopped singing. I sent fifty voice memos to Chris. No context. Just whistles. It was horrid.

    …until it wasn’t. I grew quite fond of her. Slowly, and unbelievably, I began to look forward to her whistles. She kept me company. I was never alone. I was never upset. How could I be? I opened the door to love thinking it was annoyance. They’re unlikely neighbors. She became my wife and my wingman in one. Asses clapped in harmony. Couldn’t sleep? Had to fuck to drown out the noise. Couldn’t hear my thoughts? Had to drum them out. When she was too loud to be ignored, I left the house. She may have killed my plants, but she inspired me to live. My orchids watched me become a better man for it. I joined the world one whistle at a time. And sure enough, she was always waiting to talk to me whenever I returned.

    But just as my kids have gone, so did my wife. She joined my plants in eternal silence. Now the Vodka only pours itself for me. Now I can only hear my thoughts. And they don’t whistle. They shriek. Chris and dad returned a couple of days ago to tie her vocal cords around my neck. At the time I was relieved. I was young. I was two days too young. I welcomed the quiet back with open arms not yet realizing what I would have to let go of. She wasn’t perfect, but she was mine. She wasn’t nice to listen to—at all—but I never tried. And now I won’t get the chance to. I just have to replace her. I have to be a better husband than I am a father. But the merry go round of potential wives that grace my apartment is dwindling, and my door is no longer singing. Now I have to yell while I masturbate.