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nick roberts
nick roberts is in the military & he is sometimnes angry.
his work has previously appeared in deep cleveland junkmail oracle.
story excerpt (p-kelly)
Flick our cigarettes out into the street, early morning airport
traffic, cars limping without mechanical pain, just the determination
of the driver to move as slow as possible, just enouth to be
considered moving. If they stop for a second a little Green camoflauged
National Guard guy comes whistling, pointing, yelling (like all
idiotic faggot traffic cops) lips pursed around a plastic tool
of their 'masculinity', emitting shrill threats like elementary
school crossing guards on uninhabited roads, stern face, reflective
clothing with arm straight forward, palm upturned in stop position
to cars that aren't there. As paranoia sweeps America, squeezing
tight testicles this country doesn't have (as in God), but money
makes people think they are strong, immortal. This little fucking
green guy, maybe 5'6", doin his one weekend a month, one
week a year bullshit, obviously not commited enough or 'patriotic'
enough (hollow misconstrued word today) to enlist full time,
but taking so much pride in a whistle, in the sound of his own
voice echoing through roofed thoroughfares of airports, intimidating
old people. This old guy directly in front of me waiting for
his wife, incapacitated in an electric wheelchair, to come in
through the door so he can place her in the car, take her home,
love her, take care of her. Which is plainly obvious to even
a child, to anyone who has noticed God gave you the ability to
turn your neck for such reasons, but Mr. Green just keeps yelling
and blowing hard on his whistle, his mass destructive weapon
of annoyance and hearing damage The old man doesn't notice, doesn't
hear, doesn't look, just keeps his eyes glued to his wife slowly
approaching. His eyes start to smile through thick lensed glasses.
His mouth follows suit. Mind wanders back over a length of years
that i can't imagine and thinks forward welcoming death, just
hoping she dies before him so she doesn't have to suffer the
loss, doesn't have to suffer anymore period and won't as long
as he's there for her. Noble old man. Matyr for love of an old
man. Having a little bit of seet satori until 'blap blap! "Move
it old man!" Mr. Green's bloodless whiteknuckles rap on
his window. White colorless hands. One of the reasons i know
white is not pure, never could have been in race and now doubting
in the terms of holy text. That the Lord must appear as something
beyond, but words are limited to failing eyes. Perception is
deceitful. The word asshole flies from my lips, involuntarily,
wasn't planned, but then i take pride in my remark as the guard
rotates his stupid head clockwise and counter. I just keep my
eyes focused on him with barely concealed hate. Ole man looks
up, head trembling, not from fear but from age, and wonders why
this man is so angry, why he's trying to scream through glass.
He fidgets with the door console until he rolls the window down.
"I told you to get movin now move!" driver of the car
tries to explain- "Yes, but. ." gets cut off by the
guard. "NO buts just move!" at which point the old
man opens his door pushing slightly to ease the rent-a-guard
back. He slowly rises upon his wobbly legs and points to his
wife coming through the doors. Mr. Green just nods. No apology
expressed, not even noticing the hat upon his head with navy
logo and the ship he was on before retiring. All of this making
me wish i hadn't cast the hot ember of my cigarette into the
indifferent street, wasted, when it could've been tossed into
the face of that piece of shit.
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