g r e g m u l c a h y |
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Faith |
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Rivers got it. Rivers deserved it. Everybody knew better and Rivers knew better too. Download a movie. In his cubicle. Group sex. He could not do it. Not the movie. Not the group sex. Maybe he'd see the movie. Not at work. Maybe. Hated Rivers anyway. Everybody did he thought but he did not know if his thinking was correct. Who knew about the group of them? Who needed the spectacle. If that is what it was. Hard to know sometimes—what things were. At the gas station he got out to pump gas and water was dripping down from the—what—the thing over the pumps—the canopy—the shade—the roof—the covering. Rained the last four days. Wasn't raining then. So this water must have pooled up there for how long and with what else. What variety of filth? Dripping right over the driver's door. Dodged it as he got out. Pumped the gas. Dodged it as he got in. Sensed if he were touched by that tainted water he would be befouled. Water that heals. Water that wounds. Who told him this? Or wake up with a head full of death, sky full of rain. Was that a song? Everybody else's voice in his head. Social nature of social nature. He, unsure, kept a pistol in his trunk. Took care not to end in the wrong place. Like that priest. Priest dead in the priest's car with no pants and a cock ring. Jacked, no doubt. Had to get a shame burial. Everybody knew. That, maybe, the shame. A scene illustrating The End of Love. Earlier, when Rivers was scheming to become director, Rivers had taken him for a drink. No doubt to enlist his aid. Kid on the stage in the bar. Kid sang, Betty ain't got no pie./Betty ain't got no pie./Betty ain't got no pie./Betty ain't got no pie. Rivers said something. He could not hear. He shook his head. It's like a cave in here, Rivers yelled. He did not understand. Believe it, Rivers yelled. Unbelievable, He yelled. |
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GREG MULCAHY is the author of Out of Work, Constellation, Carbine, and O'Hearn. He lives in Minnesota. in issues one four seven sixteen twenty-three |
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