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VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER FOUR

Surgical steps down the stairs on a stagnant eve. Every creak’s a palpitation. I’m awaiting the sleepy call of my name. Things expand and pirouette in the dark. Lines flutter into wraiths. Colors become shapes.

I’m on my usual late-night heist.

Dad’s office has a green carpet that looks like fake grass. He always leaves his wallet on the corner table. It’s fat and leather, stuffed with cards and bills. If I take a few twenties I can get weed and cigars for The Crew.

They like me better when I have money.

The streetlamp out front tangles with the moon. A silver canister glints on the corner table. I pick it up and shake it gently. I twist the cap open and see a dozen pink pills. I pocket two and meticulously replace the canister, unsure of my discovery. I go for the wallet.

Footsteps from above.

I tiptoe to the fridge and pull it open. Condiments rattle. Pale light slices me in half. I shut my eyes and wait.

From the head of the stairs:

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Whadaya doin’ up so late?"

He’s scratching his hairy chest.

Flakes of dried skin are falling to the floor.

We’re conversing with the dark.

"Just getting a drink, sorry…"

Please don’t come down, I think.

"Get ta bed."

"Okay, sorry…"

Please don’t come down, I think.

The bathroom door shuts. His piss streams. Ten seconds or so. My heart’s exploding, reforming, then exploding again.

I wonder when it’ll stop reforming.

The toilet flushes. The floor above my head shakes as he lumbers back to bed.

The moon winks.

I go for the wallet. It’s full. I take a few bills.

The pink pills are in my pocket.

I hear the night all around me.

My heart’s exploding.

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Chapter five, “MIMI’S VARIETY,” coming tomorrow. (My favorite story in the book.)

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VILE SELF PORTRAITS AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO DRUG ADDICTION.