That was the year I hid behind a leafless maple tree watching some guy
park his big-ass truck in the driveway of the house of the woman I loved,
the year I drove myself to the E.R. because I thought I was having a heart attack.
That was the year the recession got worse, the year I got laid off in March,
the year Taylor Swift was voted number 57 in Maxim’s sexiest women alive issue.
That was the year I flew to Colorado seeking detergent for the soul, the year I stood
on Mt. Evans watching an orange sunrise, slivering white clouds, and thought
of swan diving to my death onto the shadowy rocks below. That was the year
I slithered through the dirt of the Lonely Heart’s boot-printed barroom floor,
body flailing, thumbing a ride to the toilet. That was the year my asshole buddy Tyler
took pictures of me after I passed out in his basement laundry room and pissed
my pants, a lake of wet denim, and posted them on his goddamn Facebook page.
That was the year I asked her to marry me, but she will remember it as the year she met
that dude with the big-ass truck. That was the year I drank every day, the year I lost
friends, the year I decided friends were overrated. That was the year I met a woman
fifteen years old than me at Lonely Hearts and slurped tequila out of her asscrack,
sucked a lemon squeezed between her tits, licked salt off her toes. That was the year
I found out her husband owned a large arsenal of assault rifles and hunting knives,
the year I said Fuck it because I liked her soft fingers tracing figure-eights
on my naked thighs. That was the year Jared broke his wrist after punching
that biker dude with the piano smile outside that redneck bar that served
half-price wings and dollar drafts on Thursdays, the year we met two strippers
in the waiting room and the four of us danced to indie rock in my basement
until six a.m. That was the year I spent six hundred dollars one night at the Foxhole
on lap dances, the year I was prone to a hard-on whenever I heard the song Closer
by Nine Inch Nails, the year I got gonorrhea. That was the year I left an expensive
white pearl necklace in her mailbox when she was at work, the year she changed
her number after I kept calling her in the middle of the night. That was the year I saw
a shrink, the year I last remember crying, the year I had to practice how to smile.
That was the year memories of us finally began to shrivel like washed dollar bills,
the year I remember watching autumn leaves turn red and orange as I drank
my morning coffee. That was the year my friend Lee got divorced and called me drunk
at one a.m. two weeks before Christmas, spitting out senseless syllables and mucus,
the year I told him he was really a Saint, that one day he’d find his beads, his book,
his halo. That was the year I told him all those inner red demons would rise, the year
I told him to trust me because by then I had found my calling.
Ryan Mohr
About the author:
Ryan Mohr lives in the Rust Belt of N.E. Ohio. His work appears or is forthcoming in PANK, Rubbertop Review Volumes 2 and 3, and a few other places if you get extraordinarily bored and wish to Google him. He loves to discuss Postmodern theory, Social Constructionism, Howard Stern, and the NBA. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.
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