Badfish, A Retrospective

He

only used

his index fingers,

tapping one key at a time

until his words were complete,

scrap of torn

paper sticking out like a

bandage

on the mouth of the

typewriter.

I never knew how

to speak to him

when he was writing.

I never knew

how to look at him

or even breathe.

He’d escape and

I’d be left behind

with my bare legs and

messy hair.

Wild orange and

red

curtains

the backdrop to

our nights at the 1944

Remington Quiet Riter

he bought me for Christmas.

Into the distance

beyond those autumn

bedroom windows

there was a road that

stretched for miles

and miles

along the river,

no winds

or curves or

stop signs.

Lined with

trees and houses,

no street lights to

guide your way.

He looked

through the windows

into this road

for all of its worth

and finally decided to

remember everything

that he could

about the war.

About the only war

he would ever fight

apart that which

he fought with

himself.

His stories never brought me to tears.

Never made me upset.

I never thought to myself,

God,

I wish I had never

known this about him.

I wanted more

of him, wanted more

of his words,

more of his truth.

I wanted to know how

all of those people died

that he

had killed.

I wanted to know

exactly how

he ended their lives and

how it felt

to end them.

But

he would never

tell me such things…

he would never.

And I would never know

just as I

was never to know

what it was like

to walk for hundreds

of miles

of desert

in the same pair

of socks and

army-issued boots,

just to stop

suddenly

to end someone’s life

and then

just

move on along.

I do know

that he killed a pregnant woman.

She held a gun

to another man's head and

he reacted.

He used to have dreams about her.

Nightmares.

He used to

wake up

screaming

and

smack me across the ribs,

fighting to wake up

from a reality

he would never

be able to shake.

A cold look in his eyes,

sweat on his forehead,

he growled at me

as I tried to hold him and

he tried to

shake himself free…

I opened the bedroom window and

we drank red wine

straight from the bottle and

put cigarettes out on the carpet.

Any time that

we were able to

sleep or

fuck

it was on a mattress

on the floor,

only on days we

were drinking the moment

we woke up in the morning.

By afternoon

we’d be

at the piano

in the living room,

pounding out our misery in song

until he’d get bored or

sober

and disappear for a few hours.

But he was always back by morning.

Sometimes

we’d hide

at our favorite dive bar…

him playing pool and

me at the bar,

reading a book and

drinking until I couldn’t feel

anything

anymore.

Then stumble home,

him whispering

my black beauty,

don’t let them steal your heat.

Roll onto the living room floor,

locking out his

stoned friends

tearing at each other until

our arms were weak and

we could only think

of sleep

and our small place

to hide

in the corner of my room.

He called me Clint.

I called him Clyde.

Trouble was

putting it lightly.