Bro Code: Part One, No Girls Allowed

   The worst day of my life started when I answered the door to my childhood friend, and he said he had a craving for salami.
   We lived on the west-end of Charleston just blocks away from a butcher's shop.  
   I don't know why mother ever let us walk out of the house together.  For years she had said that Nathan and I were the devil's backyard terrors.  You would think she would've kept a better eye on us.
   Without a dime in our pockets, we walked to the butcher's.  Nathan pressed his face against the storefront glass, and his smooshed nose gave a great big sniff.  I watched his eyes close, and he said, "Can you smell that?  It's heavenly."
   Maybe I wasn't as hungry as Nathan, but when I copied my friend, all I could get a whiff of was window cleaner.  When the butcher's door slammed shut, the air that wafted our way was definitely not a clean grocery store smell.
   We walked inside and the sourness of the smell intensified.  Bile coated the roof of my mouth.  While I followed Nathan's stride, one hand held my stomach and the other covered my nose.
   His nose and eyes sought salami.
   I stuffed my hands into my pockets, determinedly.  I would not grab for the counter to steady myself.  I would not turn away from all the red meats behind the glass.  I would not run for fresh air.
   Not that Nathan would have noticed if I had done any of those things.
   The butcher's wife didn't care for Nathan's zeal, "What are ya boys up to?  Take yer dirty hands and be off!"
   When Nathan reached for the salami, the butcher's wife grabbed him by the cuff.  "Out!  Out with ya."  She pushed me ahead of him, into the door.  "Go on!  There'll be no freebies today.  Git!"
   Nathan was not pleased.  "Ah!  That miserable goat!  Now what'll we do?"
   Had my suggestion of going home been obliged, or even heard, our day might have taken a better turn.  But as the devil's backyard terrors, we weren't known for having the good sense to see trouble when we were heading straight for it.
   Nathan said, "We should go around back.  The truck picks up deliveries there.  We'll just wait for the salami to come out the back and snatch it before it gets into the truck."
   We didn't have all day to wait for a truck, but I didn't say that.  I said, "How will we know which box has the salami?"
   Nathan slowly looked at me, like I was his annoying little sister instead of his best friend, "I'll sniff it out, of course."  And with a shake of his head, he turned back to scouting out the butcher's back door.
   At the time, I'll admit that I admired my friend for his rare ability to sniff out salami.  And I had hoped that one day he would teach me how.  But afterwards, whenever I pressed him about it, he would wave me off and say that it was something you had to be born with and that I was hopeless.
   That day had been one of the saddest days of my life, but it's one that I'd rather not talk about.
   Nathan was sure that a truck would rumble down the narrow cobblestone alley and pull around to the bins that we hid behind, he just didn't know when.
   "Maybe we missed the truck already," I said.
   "Oh, don't be ridiculous.  It'll come.  Just wait."
   I learned how to pee into an empty coke bottle that day.  Nathan couldn't believe that I hadn't learned before.  "We're eleven, Matthew.  Stop being such a girl."
   That moment, the back door opened and a young girl crept out.
   "What is she up to?"  Nathan whispered.

Until Death Do Us Part

   A morose mermaid with white shells and purple scales sat on her island rock, combing her sea-green hair with a starfish broken in two.  She looked out over the gentle blue waves and squinted against the reflecting sunlight.  Her name was Despondu.  
   Despondu released a sigh and tossed her dead starfish into the water.  She watched it sink.  Bubbles rose to the surface and tickled her fin.
   She wanted to smile, but she wasn't sure how.  
   Long before, when she was born, her mother used to sing to her.  Despondu was happy then, hearing her mother's song.  So the mermaid began to hum.  Her voice started low and tortured.  
   The land's creatures quieted and turned to hear her.  Long ears sagged, long necks dropped their heavy heads, wings folded, sinking in mid-flight, and then nothing moved.  Every animal's sadness grew with the strength of Despondu's tune.
   As she fought the tears, her hum shook her throat, and her mouth opened to a lonely melody.  
   It carried across the wind and water, over the trees and clouds, searching for happiness.  But none would come.
   Despondu's song closed on a wail.  Her love was gone.  She would outlive many humans, but she never thought her life would be a curse until now.

For Love, or An Addiction

   The bitter cold pricked and pinched Lyle's legs.  The wind shot up his pant legs and shoveled snow down his wool socks.  Wet layers of snow melt drenched his gloves and flattened his hair.  
   Lyle stood in front of his apartment building, shivering for warmth.  Each movement felt as though his bones would snap like an icicle.
   For love, he endured the cold.  
   And, sweet smoke filled his lungs.

What a Thrill

   After you've stared at something long enough for your eyes to cross, have you ever experienced a pulsating tick?  I'm sure you have.  But has that pulsating tick ever felt disgustingly pleasurable?  
   My therapist told me that taking pleasure from something that tortures me makes me a masochist.  
   Well, she used other words that sounded a lot more scientific and demeaning.  But, it works.
   I didn't have the heart to tell her that gluttony was my favorite sin.  I couldn't destroy her great hopes for me and my recovery.
   Yes, my recovery.  I torture myself, and I love it.  I stare and stare and stare, willing reality to pop out of my imagination.  But nothing happens.  I only experience a tick.  A small spasm inside my skull that I never want to end.
   I just look at the blank page.  And freeze.  All I want is words to pour out of me, and all I need is the tick.  Once it starts, I bury myself in it.  Time passes.  And I call it a night.
   My therapist and my editor want me to move on, but I need it.  I need the chemical imbalance.  I need the thrill.  
   Without it, I'm no more than a writer who is terrified to write.