with what it is i have

The Future!

It's good to be back!

The sky is still blue, the cars look only slightly more modern than where I'm from. There are a hell of a lot more stores everywhere. People still seem to shuffle about lost in their own thoughts.

I get to Gaithersburg and slide down the long stair railing at the Metro, just for old time's sake. I'm stopped in my tracks when I see the brand new ticket machines. I have no idea how to use them. There's just a giant flat glass screen and a slot below it. Where does the credit card go? The glowing, animated icons all say things like "Trans-County 1/Off No Pass" and what the hell does that mean? People in line behind me are starting to get impatient. A Chinese woman with a very expensive-looking briefcase clears her throat as I stare, perplexed. I walk off quickly and stand in a corner of the airy, bright mezzanine, watching as each person mechanically and quickly punches the right combo of buttons, gets their ticket and rapidly goes towards the fare gates.

Fuck it, I say, I'll take the bus.

45 minutes later we emerge from stand-still traffic and pull into the circular driveway of a large, glassy apartment building. This is where I'll be staying. It's mid-afternoon so there isn't a lot of activity in the lobby. I walk briskly past the doorman and he doesn't seem to care. In the elevator I check my pulse, it's a habit. Normal. But I feel this excitement coursing through me.

Peter's apartment is on the 34th floor. The front door opens onto a huge cube of a living room, walls of glass on each side. It's like being in a treehouse high above the city. I can see the planes taking off from Dulles in the distance. Peter's brother sits on the couch and waves at me. He's got a pretty brunette wearing a halter top on his lap. She looks to be just about 18. That's ok, I remember. His brother just entered UVa on scholarship.

I excuse myself to Peter's room and collapse onto the small loveseat by the bed. When I wake up it's still bright out. I must have slept a couple of hours at most. My phone is buzzing and I can't understand why. I'll check it later.

I go out to the living room and the brunette has a friend of hers with her now. The two girls sit on the sofa and wave at me smiling as I enter the room. We make small talk. They ask where I'm from and I say "New York" and there's a strange pause before they smile and nod and continue their conversation. I go to the kitchen for some water.

An hour later I am in the bathroom splashing water over my face rapidly and on the verge of panic. What the fuck is in the water here? I don't feel right. I feel okay physically, I suppose. But my mind is like a sea urchin opening to defend itself, spikes appearing from nowhere, each one pointing in a thousand directions.

I feel okay physically, I tell myself. My health isn't in danger. I repeat this inside. Just relax.

I go out to the living room. The sun is much lower now, casting a golden sheen over the treetops of the suburbs like spilled glitter. Planes still take off from Dulles, glinting in the sun like tiny bright flashes. The original brunette is gone. Her friend remains, reading a magazine.

We talk for a bit and it gets to the point of fooling around. I realize I've finally relaxed. My mind is still in a distant place but I know that panicking will solve nothing, that I have to work with it. I'm unbuttoning her shirt when I remember my phone buzzing earlier. What the hell was that about? I excuse myself for a minute and walk quickly into Peter's room.

On his dresser is a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. I try them on. "Giorgio Armani" is etched into the frame. In the mirror I look fantastic. This is the first pair of sunglasses I've ever worn that looked perfect. This is the good life, I think, before I realize the oddity of it. Since when do I give a fuck about Armani sunglasses? It's a perfect example of how my mind is 180 degrees from normal but I feel alright.

The phone is a message from S., and she's collapsing emotionally. She's left me messages of anger and hurt before, messages in tears. This one is 1000 times worse. "I never want to ever see you again," she says. "You should be dead, you should be killed for what you did to me. You think you can just use me whenever you need your ego boosted but I have feelings, I devoted years to you for nothing and y--" I can't understand what she's talking about or what I've done wrong. Maybe it's a glitch. I hope it isn't there when I get back. I close the phone.

Walking over to the window, I see streams of people disembarking from the buses or idling cars and walking into the building. I scan the crowd, mostly office workers, and then there, by the potted trees, Peter is on the ground being kicked by three large frat-boy looking guys in ballcaps.

"Fuck," I say aloud and tear the sunglasses from my face. I run out to the living room, not even noticing the girl reclining there on the couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, her mouth in a small half-smile. I run for the elevator.

When I get to the lobby and out the glass doors the frat boys are getting into a large SUV. They drive off quickly and silently, reaching the end of the drive and turning right into a fast flow of traffic in seconds. I rush over to Peter, still prostrate on the sidewalk and bleeding from the corner of his mouth. People are still streaming by, no one is paying any attention.

"Peter what the fuck is going on, are you ok?" He nods. His suit is crumpled, the dress shirt has come untucked, there's dust around his light eyebrows and speckled about the crown of his neatly shaved head.

"I'm alright," he says in his strong Queens accent. "Fucking Virginia kids, it was drugs."

I hoist him up and we walk slowly into the building. We get on an escalator to the upper level of the lobby where there is a restroom.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask. He waves off the question.

"Pete it's so stupid," I say. "We're gonna pop the Glock on those assholes."

Did I just say that? That's not how I feel. I stand for a second wondering whether what people here have been hearing is the same as what I've been forming in my mind.

As we crest the top of the escalator, sun shines in a blast through a tall wall of glass. Dappled by the nearby oaks, it shimmers in our eyes as we step off and onto the marble tile of the landing.

Where the hell am I?

tightly

i am blasting through essex on a train at midnight. my head is swimming. six pm felt great and now is like the walls are concrete and i've finally seen them for their strength. fuck, nothing sounds right, an old man gets on at ilford and sits across from me and offers me a biscuit and all i can do is smile politely, pursed.

sometimes i wish there was no technology.

i think into the future too often. i meet a girl in rayners lane and she sits with me for a pint and i can only see her future, wonder about the days she'll spend in the front room and the nights she'll miss in the off-license.

nothing can distract me from this. i lean back in the non-smoking carriage and puff away on imported camels but the old man doesn't even flinch.

i met a hippie fellow in camber sands, who blew glass. it was a darkened afternoon, skies like cigarette smoke gathering above us. he kept at it, over and over, twisting and turning the ends until a beautiful vase was made. we stood back from the glow and gawked, minds on something else in the recesses of our thoughts. this will do for now, we said.

there's no stopping my thoughts and worries of you. the fastest train won't outrun them. i lay back in this uncomfortable seat and i can still see you, clinging tightly.

will he blow you into a beautiful glass vase? or will there be imperfections? a melted ridge right around the curve from some smooth shiny work of art.

it's cooled too fast to flatten out, he said, tossing the wasted display aside into a pile of jagged rubbish.