Written by Dylan Hook
Illustrated by Victoria Renteria
I used to tip-toe into my own bed during the day-time. I know it's weird. But I used to hate napping. I was scared to spend the sunlight hours so carelessly. I was better aware then that I only had so many. I nap often now.
***
My buddy David is scared of heights and he drinks a lot.
***
I’m going to talk about my sister. I’m going to tell you one lie about her. I want you to pick out the lie for me. In this way I’m giving you power over me.
She had green eyes and red hair. But me? I have brown eyes and brown hair..
***
Whenever you talk about a story, or if you go to class to study stories, or whatever, you’ll always have someone put forth the proposition that “the main character is crazy and made parts of it up.” It pisses me off how little people believe in honesty. Crazy is an irresponsible word to throw around.
***
My buddy David is a writer. Sometimes we go downtown and we find a tall building and walk up the stairs and see if they left the roof access unlocked. When we get lucky we walk around the roof. It's very hot. Our clothes stick to our skin. Sometimes when I remember it I picture us as attractive models. Pecs and abs underneath thin shirts, faces that glow and glisten with sweat like we were oiled up before a shoot. Other times I remember us as ugly. Oblong shapes in ill-fitting clothes and faces made by angels playing “pin the tail on the donkey.” I never remember us as an in-between of these two things.
***
I had a radio with headphones connected to it. I also had a computer. I had an iPod. But the radio was my favorite. On days when the outside was painted with the lazy strokes of a heat-haze so that the edges of your vision looked like a mirage. Edges still being painted. Edges still being rendered. my sister would put on the big black ear-cushioned headphones and flip the tuner to a station that doesn’t exist. I could hear the white noise leaking out because the volume was too high. I worried for her ears. She would tell me she heard voices and music.
“What do you hear?” I’d ask.
My voice isn’t strong enough to get to her. Her eyes are emeralds, and her face is pointed with high cheekbones. Her hair is fire colored, and she reminded me of a bird with hollow bones. Her hair was fire. Her hair was on fire.
***
I’ve met people who fetishize redheads now that I’m older. Men who claim that they like that they are “fiery” but their meaning smells of acrid sweat and tells of some objectifying carnal desire. Women who say the same and only mean it a little differently. Isn’t it kind of stupid to have a “type”? I imagine a world where everyone shaves their head. Will the people with sunburnt scalps be the new redheads? They will say:
“The shinier the dome the better in bed.”
***
My buddy David looks over the edge of a rooftop to the street below. I don’t see what he sees but I’m sure it's enticing in its own way. I think that I’m worried that he will fall because that is the only thing I should think. I think that I could push him because that is the only thought shocking enough to get my attention.
“I’m dizzy,” he’s scared but he says this laughing. “What if I fell?” he asks for his own amusement.
“That would be awful,” I don’t lie. “Please step away from the edge.”
When we got up here we had forgotten to prop open the roof access. It locked behind us. We were stuck sweltering until a friend could come and let us down. He was still thirty minutes out.
David stepped away from the edge. He was bald. No. He had red hair. No. His hair color didn’t matter. It was sweltering. He was sweating. He stank. Me too. There was something appealing about that. I thought about kissing him.
***
My sister tells me what she heard with her eyes closed. I imagine that when she closes her eyes they become solid green like a stone. I don’t know why. Her eye color doesn’t matter but still when I remember her I forget her pupils and I forget the whites of her eyes. I think this is okay. Sometimes I forget about her. I think this is okay.
“On Ilashani they have no rulers. Everyone is a prince and a princess, at the same time, not at all. They have a sun the color of cotton candy when held in water. They have no war but they do sometimes have a sport where they kill each other for fun. Ilashani is an odd place. But that makes it no less real. Just because you can’t picture it doesn’t mean it's not real.”
I tell her something but she doesn’t hear me because she has headphones on. I think this is okay. She continues.
“In Oregon they still hold harvesting festivals. They harvest ideas right out of the heads of everyone in the state. They trade these ideas with the Ilashani peoples in exchange for normalcy. The Ilashani use these ideas to make sure normalcy is hard to picture on their planet. All of the Ilashani look like people, but they always look better than people. They all think like people, but they are so fed on so many good and bad ideas that they think so much better.”
This is a game me and my sister play. She tells me the truth that she hears and I have to try my very hardest to believe it.
***
I read about Ockam’s (Occam’s) Razor recently. It says that the most believable explanation is the correct explanation. It seems an awfully stupid razor to shave with if you ask me.
***
I’m still on that roof with David. I still think about kissing David. I think that he will kiss me back but I don’t think his kiss will be the same as mine and I don’t know if that is okay with me. I don’t know why I want to kiss him.
Maybe it is because it has been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone. Maybe it is because I like that he is an artist (I don’t like his writing though). Maybe it is because he is my friend and a kiss (does)’nt mean much. Maybe it is because we are both on this roof alone and I thought about pushing him off. Kiss. Push. Kiss. Push.
I decide that it doesn’t matter why I want to kiss him. I won’t want to kiss him again. I haven’t wanted to kiss him before. I want to kiss him because I am selfish and like so many other people I want. I want. I want.
Put me alone on a roof with anyone and I’d want to kiss them. You too.
He stands close to me on the roof. He tells a joke and I laugh.
“Haha.”
He laughs too and when he closes his eyes I forget what color they are.
***
Sometimes my sister doesn’t say anything. We listen to white noise and she hums songs, the songs that she hears and I don’t. I give them names.
“Raining Bananas.” An upbeat tune.
“Pukey Kiss.” A love song.
“I Pissed Your Pants.” This is a song about missing somebody really really bad.
“Green Garbage Garage Day.” This is a song that exists for the sake of it.
I can still remember how these songs go. Or maybe these songs go however I decide to remember them.
My sister tells me:
“Think of the best thing you can think of.”
“Okay.”
“Now think of something better.”
“I can’t.”
This is another game we play on hot days when she wears my headphones. It is the hardest one. Will you help me think of another game I played with her? Please?
***
I guess I should offer a description of myself. I don’t really want to though because you might recognize me. Isn’t the hardest thing to do is to describe yourself? Shouldn’t others just know the ways in which you are not them?
***
The Ilashanis look alot like us, but unlike us in that they look better. Isn’t that hard to imagine? I want them to be real. For Ilashanis, contradiction coexists. I want that. Do you believe in aliens?
***
David tells jokes until the ride gets there. I look at his lips. We both take our shirts off because we think that it is so hot we will die. We were on that roof such a long time ago. Does he still think about me? We are still on that roof.
I am sad when rescue arrives. His lips are red. His lips are bald. The color of his lips doesn’t matter. I watch them anyways. I think his breath stank. That wouldn’t have mattered to me.
Before we get off that roof I tell him.
“I love you.”
“I love you too man. You’re my best friend.”
We both mean it the same way.
I guess I could ask you if I kiss him later. I think you’ve already made up your mind about what happened between me and David though. You’re no help. Another way you have power over me. I hate you for it. Fucking give me a happy ending.
He moves soon after. I don’t talk to him again. What color are his eyes?
***
We are old enough to be disgusted with ourselves, my sister and I. We still play our games even though we can drive and go elsewhere. I ask her:
“Are you adopted?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
My sister is Ilashani. I am only human. She loves me very much.
***
My house burned down in a fire. My sister went with it. People will only believe you if it hurts. There is no honesty in happiness.
***
It's up to you to tell me exactly what lie I said about my sister. I guess there’s an extra option though, you could say I made her up. But you wouldn’t do that to me would you? Wouldn’t rob me of her, right? Please tell me aliens exist. I’ll leave you a blank below so you can write down my lie:
Hey, man? Please don’t hurt me.
***
The last thing David left me was a poem. Here:
Italian Wine
By David Hugo
I’ve got noodle arms and legs,
And I’m scared ‘cause the open air
Is boiling water.
I’ve got meatball brains.
The floor ‘s a skillet I can’t bare--
I just might collapse.
My belly’s made of cheese.
Watch out for when I stare
‘Cause I’ll puke.
I’m never drinking again.
We had gotten thrown out of an Italian family restaurant the night he wrote that. Didn’t tell me he was leaving so soon. The poem kind of sucks. I hate his writing. I want to hate him. Ouch.
***
I fell in love with a bartender. She doesn’t have red hair. She has no hair at all. Does her hair color matter? I don’t know if I will kiss her. I know I want to though. I want.
We won’t be drinking Italian wine.
That is believable, right?
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