Time Like Loose Pocket Change.

Time Like Loose Pocket Change.

And the sound of flipping bills- hundreds, twenties, tens, fives- thwlip, thwlip, thwlip, in rapid succession as the petite five-foot bird, fresh from college, flipped through the wad of deposited cash. Count-ing.

Clyde stood in that fucking line in the bank. It was packed full of characters, dirty filthy characters- Clyde didn't care how clean or morally disposed any of them were- to him, dirt, the lot of them. Scum of the earth. He almost hated them all. He didn't have a lot of room for hate. Especially for the semi-odd people in there at the moment. It was too many. Too much for him. If he were younger, more spry, he'd shoot at least one person. Maybe stab them. Maybe hurl a rock through a window and set the building on fire.

But alas, his elderly age had gotten to him. Paralyzed his ambition and motivation. He'd do a lot if he could...sadly, it was why he was here with these fucking heathens. Fucking heartless monsters. What made his aorta twitch was the fact he was one of them. He was right alongside them. Even though he could not despise another human individual more than he did for everyone in that bank, and everyone in line. Which simply meant he had a deep and extravagant hate for himself. A moronic statement. A hypocritical statement.

And money kept moving from the led in line to the little birds behind the bulletproof glass and dinky little speakerbox. Roughly ten lines, or something, Clyde wasn't much more than five-five, even with his fresh black loafers on. He couldn't see far, nor did he care to. He could hardly turn his damn neck, let alone peak over half a dozen lines of people. He made his observation by sound- that reckless, obnoxious communication. They all spoke as if the person they conversed with were across the fucking room. Across the universe.

Clyde was losing his grip, his self-control was slipping. His sanity along with it- down the drain, he watched it spinning with the soap suds and lose hairs. His head snapped back to reality at the sound of a wailing baby. His teeth were chattering in his anger. How many more people? He asked himself. How many more ahead of me? I can't. I fucking can't. And he looked- three more. Only three. He could wait for three...just three.

And the baby screamed louder. Clyde turned his whole body to stare at this neglectful mother. His ice blue eyes on fire, burning holes through anyone daring to be caught in his gaze. Anyone idiotic enough. Clyde shuffled back in line, facing toward that massive sheet of plastic glass. His breath was growing louder, his heart was beating barbarically. His teeth would fall out soon- he swore it. He swore. These damned heathens, their obnoxiousness, their crude behavior. Letting babies scream like dying dogs in public places...just three more.

The woman in lead whom was speaking gently, but with the most rasping voicebox you've ever heard, had just gotten gone. She left the line, clutching a light tan square receipt the length of a man's thumb. Her face the puddled mess resulting in heroine replacing her morning coffee- her face wrecked, it looked like a swollen red rash. All her scabs fresh, her skin older than Clyde's yet she couldn't have been forty-one. She limped past the whole line, not one person caring, nor daring, to look at this Wendy-type character.

It turned Clyde's skin inside out. He made him hot in anger. No, not even- this was rage. A tickle ran up his spine, like the Devil was teasing him with a turkey feather. "You scum", Clyde spoke to her, his voice not loud for he was elderly. But his words still stunk of anger, and than burned with the same sensation. She heard him, but not very clearly over the voices of the heroine angels and demons. Her eyes jumped to Clyde- she wore the same ice blue eyes as him- and than they jumped away. "How much time did you buy?"

She heard that. She heard it quickly, and like a rabid squirrel, she locked eyes with him and leapt up to him, her lips squirming, and her eyes blinking madly. She spoke with the velocity of a starving cheetah. "Why- why you ask? Eh? Eh? Why you ask? You wa-want to buy it? You wanna buy it off me? Off me? Y-u-u-you want it? How much? H-how much? Eh?" She scratched her ear.

Clyde sighed. Why did he talk at all? "Shut the fuck up, junkie. I was wanting how much crack you could buy. Fucking idiot."

Clearly she didn't hear the insult and answered rapidly. "W-well I turned in all my cans-", she spoke, itching, "-so that was t-wwenty-oone dollars and some change- I got like two hours and sometin. Sometin- hey, you wanna buy it?"

Clyde looked at her, his mouth agape, his annoyance so high it raised his blood pressure. "Fuck. Off."

"Are you sure- like I can-"

"Fuck off!" Clyde shouted. He shouted so loud it hurt his throat. The junkie jumped and limped out of the bank, mumbling to the ghosts of ghouls of her heroine-fueled fantasyland. Clyde stumbled to face forward again. "...Jesus fucking..." he spoke the last word in his head, shaking it annoyed with his experience of the world. He wondered if it was all worth something…

Than a heavy and thick hand landed on his shoulder. Clyde turned back and looked up to the black man dressed in tie and dress attire. He had a computer pouch slung over his shoulder, hanging at his side, his hair was thick and not very neatly dreaded. He was thick, but athletically so and he smiled at Clyde. "Calm down, partner. Everything will be alright." And he smiled with closed eyes.

Clyde frowned, swiped the man's hand off his shoulder and turned back forward. He sighed...two more people, he thought. Just two more. He wondered if it was worth it at all. Probably not. But he might regret it later. So he stayed put. 

Accidentally, he caught the conversation of the man in front of him. He was a middle-aged business man dressed in a light gray suit, his hands in his pockets- he spoke to the air in front of him. He was much taller than him and spoke like a calming salesman. "-its really not how it works, Michelle. Don't be stupid now. It's a deposit on your life. That's how this works. Stop thinking like some old head with no more life to live. You're a babyfaced millionaire- you can afford to think independently. You don't have to look at the stocks like a normie. Like an oldie...listen, no...", this man stopped to listen to Michelle. Clyde realized just than he was talking to a man through an earpiece. Clyde felt stupid. Which made him angry. Angrier...

The man chuckled smally, falsely. "...Michelle...you are not a regular person. You have enough money to buy entire lives...you know this don't you? Come on. Live like you have three-hundred more years, because you do. You can afford three more lifetimes. Act like it. An- no, shut up about that. That's ridiculous. It's upsetting, stop. The market won't crash. The economy will be at this high for ages, absolute ages- I can assure you that...of course. Yes I can assure you that. I promise it." He laughed, falsely of course. He nailed it, Clyde thought. "I'd give you my pinky, but you're a thousand miles away." He laughed again. "Okay good...yes that's good. Okay, I gotta go now...yuh, I'm at the bank...yuh, it is ironic. Yes. Okay bye. Bye." And he pressed the eyepiece, letting out an enormous sigh as the person in front of him stepped out of line- an elderly black lady. She didn't seem all too happy. Nor sad.

The businessman sauntered up to the glass, the pretty young bird smiled with white teeth- "name?" Her voice perky. Falsely perky. She hated her job. She hated it all. She hated the fakery. And yet look how good she was at it...

"Devin Latoya", he said flatly, not in any manner of how he spoke to Michelle on the phone. "Two-Six-Six-Seven-O-Eight-One."

She typed in the name and number with one keen finger, her nails painted white. She looked at the screen for a moment than back up to Devin. "Will this be a withdrawal or deposit?" Her smile as bright as the midday sun.

"A transfer actually", Devin answered, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and sliding it in that sterling silver bowl they shared.

She took it and read it. "Alright. The full amount?"

"Yes ma'am", Devin nodded, his hands falling back into his pockets.

She typed into the computer. "Will that be in time or cash?"

"All in time today, if you will."

"Of course", she said, typing through a dozen numbers. After a few minutes of waiting on the transfer to go through, and verifying several things, a light tan receipt was printed out of the computer. "There we go", she smiled brightly, falsely, ripping the receipt and sliding it through the silver bowl they shared. "Here you are, sir."

"Can you read that number to me, please?" Devin asked.

She was done with him, but kept up the act. "Of course", she picked up the light tan square sheet and read the number off. " two years, forty weeks, nine days, nine hours, forty-six minutes and thirty-eight seconds ... sir."

He nodded twice, Clyde's heart stopped to hear that. How much did that cost? Two full years? Nearly three. Devin asked one more favor. "How many days is that? If you don't mind answering..."

"...One-thousand-and-nineteen-point-eight-nine-one-seven-eight days...sir."

Devin smiled, although Clyde heard it more than he saw it. "Excellent", he took the light tan piece of paper, shoved it in his pocket as if it was just another receipt- another hunk of junk to lug around all day. He smiled victorious as he turned from the line and walked out of the bank.

Clyde watched him go, almost disgusted, entirely infatuated with the annoyance he felt for the businessman. How could one person have so much money, so much time...he wondered how much time he'd already gone through...he wondered-

"Next...", tweeted the little bird.

Clyde turned and stared for longer than he should have. That number was just so complex. His cerebral cortex didn't want to process it...He strode forward, holding the fake wood counter, as if he'd fall. He might fall. His mind was in the process of being boggled as the bird called to him once more.

"Sir...name...?"

Clyde looked up to her. He paused. "...If you don't mind me asking...how much did that cost him?...A thousand days."

She gave him a look. "We aren't supposed to disclose the information of customers...but...", she hesitated and whispered through the widow. "It was a hundred-thousand dollars..." She nodded.

"Fuck..."

She waited for him. "...Deposit or withdrawal?"

He looked back up to her. For a long moment he was stuck. "Withdrawal. I want everything out."

"In time or cash, sir?"

"...Time."

Clyde pushed king-side bishop to C5, checkmate was threatened. He laughed. "Ya. Fuck you, Dayle."

Dayle blinked. "You better not call me a monkey again, Clyde. Damn near made me get a restraining order on ya ass last time ya did." Queen-pawn to D4.

Dayle had his arms laying on the edge of the stone table. He was a heavy old black man, with simple short hair, a bit of a mustache and all the patience in the world. A side effect to all that patience was being slow and uncaring. He was as much of both as could be. Not a man Cylde would find himself on the same board with. He was angrier than most sixty-eight year old men. He was meaner, ruder, cruder- but for the most part he kept it inside. For the most part.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Clyde said as he moved next, quickly, without much more thought than required; pawn take pawn.

Dayle blinked slowly, as was his nature, than moved immediately, his gait couldn't have been more cow-like. That slow grazing type motion. The motion obese and depressed prey make. Pawn take pawn, threatening bishop. Dayle said nothing. "Funny guy. He thinks he's a funny guy." Bishop B4, check.

Knight C3.

Pawn C5.

Pawn A3, threatening Bishop.

Clyde nodded. "You're fun to play with you know that?"

Dayle nodded with his cowish manner. His voice was precisely the same; flat, cowish, demeaning. "You tell me that same line every single day, Cylde. It's nothing new."

"Ya. Nothing new...", Cylde pondered, but not on his next move, nor even the move after that. He pondered on everything else. On everything his life was coming to. On his life. How it was. How it is...Whether or not any of it was worth anything. "Heya...Dayle?"

"Ya?"

The blue-eyed elder hesitated. Almost nervous, oddly. He had no reason to be such way. No purpose in feeling the way he did. But he did. "Whena- when was the last time you bought time?"

Dayle thought about it. "Something like three years ago now. Ya." He laughed once to himself. "Didn't buy much. Couldn't afford much."

"Why'd you buy it?" Cylde asked, than moved Knight H6.

Dayle hardly bothered with the move, than pushed pawn to B4, taking the bishop. "Wella...I hardly remember actually. So long ago...I think it was a gift. For my mother-in-law. Dealing with cancer, whatnot. She was late, pretty much a corpse already and I thought it'd be best for us all -her too, I'm not that selfish- ...to just give her a few more hours with us. Actually, I think it was more. Just a little more." He fingered his mustache, pondering. He snorted. "I spent my last one-twenty-six- drained my account just to have her around for one more evening. It was fifteen hours actually. Just about...it's interesting... I always thought it was a hoax, like...how do you buy someone more time...it just doesn't make sense to me. But it worked. It works...Don't ever doubt that business magic. It fucking works."

"That is interesting...You never bought any for yourself? You ain't that selfish are ya?" Clyde laughed, playing with the man.

"I am that selfish", Dayle chuckled once, than shrugged. "We all are. Can't deny that. It's a fact...buta...I was young. And it was a lot. It wasn’t much time." He shook his head and gave a snort, than palmed his forehead. "I remember- oh my God, I remember I didn't pay my rent for three months. I told'em I was going through surgery and couldn't work. I said I'd be out for four months." He snorted. "Actually I was putting in overtime at the factory, for months I didn't sleep. Well I slept, but not really. Not real sleep."

"I know what you mean."

"Yeah...And- jeez, I think I was putting in seventeen hours, eighteen I think." He scratched the back of his head, watching the stone board. "Seven days a week. For two months. Lord, thinking back on it, that must have been the dumbest decision of my life. All that work for just a little payback. A little outcome...I should've invested it. That would've been a smarter choice. Might've had a better return..."

"How much did that buy? How much did you save?"

Dayle sighed than snorted. "No, I remember the precise number too. I worked too hard to forget it. six-thousand-eight-hundred-and-ninety dollars and eighty-nine cents. Today that's just eighty days- or around eighty days, but back in '86, that was so much...I think it bought me three-and-a-half years in that economy."

"Imagine if you went to Mexico."

"The exchange rate is insane. It's like five to one."

"That's fifteen years", Clyde laughed. "That's too much."

"Yeah back then it was", Dayle agreed with a nod. "But today, it's practically nothing. It's like one to one-point-seven."

"Almost double."

"Sure...but it doesn't seem worthwhile. And you know the Cartel and gangs down there. You buy a year, go down there and exchange it for two- almost two- and Juan comes from around the corner with a Kel-Tec- you know?"

"Yeah...", Cylde thought for a moment, not caring to play the game anymore.

"...Did you buy something?"

"I did. Well. No, I didn't", Cylde folded his arms on the stone table. Dayle unfolded his arms unconsciously. "I took everything out of my account."

"No shit", Dayle's eyes grew wonderous, his brow peaked and bowed. "Don't you get an interest rate on that? Or something of the sort for having all that money in there for so long."

"Yeah", Cylde nodded.

Dayle smirked. "It's one of those things? You wanna tell me now or over beers?"

Cylde smiled. "...Beers sound nice don't they."

Dayle stood with great effort, showing off his pudgy elder belly and thick arms. "Are we off to Mars or the Barge- we get Senior Citizen discounts at Mars. It's Tuesday."

"Yeah...", Cylde was stuck in his thoughts. "No, actually. No Beers today. I don't think I need them right now."

"Shit man. What did I do?" Dayle asked responsibly.

"No no", Clyde waved him off, as he stared at the unfinished game. He was winning. A game gone unfinished has no winner... "Not you. Just me. Stuck in my head is all."

"That's understandable. That's child's play, don't you think? We're almost dead, Cylde. We should have are shit figured out."

That hurt his feelings. Made him mad in the heart, but the words rung true. It was not a lie. Cylde was being childish. He was old and a man. Being a child wasn't supposed to be in his day's activities. "Shit...No, you're right."

"That's right", Dayle agreed. "Now let's walk to Mars, it's Tuesday. A dollar beers and nachos Cylde. Nachos. You know how I feel about nachos, don't play with me."

Cylde snickered. "Yeah", he stood. "You know I hate it when you're right?"

"You tell me that everyday, Cylde. Ain't nothing new." Nothing new...

And the mug slid across the old wooden counter, before Clyde's face. It was huge, drooling on all sides, the white foam a delicious invitation. The yellow-gold liquid a feast for his eyes, soon for his lips and tongue. His old gut would love it more than anything. "Thank you", Clyde told the bartender- a young bird who cared very little. Her face spoke more than her voice. She simply nodded, walking off to serve another table. The whole bar was full of old men. It was Tuesday after all. At two in the afternoon. All the young bucks were working, or Clyde hoped they were working. The alternative being so much worse than sitting in a bar in the evening. So much worse.

"Hot damn", Dayle complimented the pint fiercely. He set it down gently. "That is the mead of the Gods", he chuckled. "That is fantastic."

Clyde raised the ice pint to his lips, hesitating for half a second to sniff its scent, than he tasted the gold. It filled his mouth, so cold, velvet-smooth, and he washed it down and it filled his belly egregiously...He set down the mug. "It's piss."

Dayle snorted at his comment. "Fuck you, Clyde. Can never enjoy a damn pint in peace...There's always something with you." He sipped his pint, practically moaning in its golden-taste. He sighed and sipped more. "...The fucks wrong?"

Clyde laughed. "What isn't wrong?"

"Shut the fuck up. Don't play with me like that. You know we're too old for these games. We're sitting in the pub, sipping on dollar beers- there can't be things wrong. Cant." He drank his beer, not a sip this time. It tasted too good. Likely because of its price. That was besides the point.

Clyde tapped the table with a saddened rhythm. "...I just don't get it, Dayle. What the fuck is this all for?"

Dayle laughed at him. "You're joking right? Clyde we've been around for seventy fucking years. You know my answer word for word."

"Yeah..."

"Shall we say it together?" Dayle toyed with him. "Ready? One, two..."

Similtanously they spoke- Clyde in a down voice, Dayle in a high voice- "Who gives a fuck."

"Ya", Dayle nodded, laughing. He slapped the counter twice. "That's right. Who gives a fuck. We've been around too long to fucking care. We're almost dead anyway." He drank his beer- halfway gone...halfway full. "Just enjoy it while you can. If you can't find meaning before you're thirty, than you're a lousy idiot who didn't look hard enough, ya?" He got no response. "Yeah."

"Had meaning. Had." Clyde spoke with the low vibration of a teenager on the verge of tears.

Dayle sighed and downed his beer. To himself he spoke quietly, "Its gonna be a long night", than set his empty mug of foam down, the glass still cold enough to fog up. "...She died years ago, Clyde. You mean to tell me without her you're lost? There's no way that's true. Maybe you're just in your head. You're sixty-eight though- sixty-eight year olds should be in the park playing chess and in the pub on Tuesdays drinking dollar beers...not running around screaming at the world about how sad your life is."

"I'm not screaming at no one."

"Screaming and silence give the same emotions", Dayle told him sincerely. "...Sorry I was so stern with you. It's just...I know I've said this a thousand times a minute, but we are too old. Too old, Clyde."

"I know I'm too damn old", Clyde kissed his teeth, releasing a sigh. "This is just all so fucking stupid. I feel like a child. I have a family, and a home. Yet I'm complaining about the world. It's all bullshit. I'm full of bullshit." He sipped his beer. "This is bullshit."

Dayle tickled the air with his fingers and Clyde slid him the mug. "Thanks", and he drank. There was a moment of silence. Than the bartender walked by, all in a hurry to tend to the other oldheads.

"Miss", Clyde called as they strode by. She stopped and looked at him, waiting for the words to come out fast. "Are the Blue Moons discounted as well?"

She nodded, plastering on a smile so fake it hurt Clyde's chest. She nodded with closed eyes, for if they were open it would break the lie she was telling. "Yes they are. You'd like some?"

"Three, please..." Clyde said with a voice as shy as a six year old. A child.

"Coming right up", and she was off.

"...She hates her job", Clyde said as she left.

"No shit really", Dayle countered. "Catering to a dozen oldheads on a fucking Tuesday doesn't sound very appealing to me. I don't know about you." He drank off Clyde's mug.

"Well shit...Didn't mean it like that, but...", Clyde paused as the bird landed a fresh Sixpack of Blue Moon Blood Orange before him. "Thank you." She nodded and once more was gone. Clyde continued, after he recalled what he was even talking about. "I just mean like...where's the joy in the experience? I know no one likes their job, but...shouldn't you enjoy doing something with your day? The productivity, the challenge, the competition-"

"The money."

"The money. Yes, the money", Clyde agreed. "...But...Just- like what's the point of working a twelve hour day, if you get nothing but the absolute bare minimum out of it? You know...? Why build a brick house if you don't like the smell of the mortar? Why scan groceries at Oliver Lemons, if you don't like conversing about groceries? Why?...Like...you don't care what I'm saying."

"Shut up, Clyde, and keep spewing. I'm listening. I get it", Dayle convinced him, finishing the second mug. He lined up the first and second, so they were even and he crossed his arms, wanting more. He waited for more.

"You get it...", Clyde nodded, agreeing. He grabbed a beer, it was ice cold, so cold his arm tingled, his spine carried it down. "Wow. That's something decent."

He popped the cap with a bottle opener, which was built into the counter, and set the cap on the table neatly. He sipped the icy beer. It was delicious. "...Anyway- I don't even know what I was talking about. This beer is so damn good. Fuck."

"See, that's what you needed", Dayle spoke. "You needed a beer. You needed something to cool your mind. You're just so angry at everything and there's nothing to douse your fire. You know what I'm saying?"

He huffed a laugh, sipping his beer, followed by a heavy chug. "Yeah. Even if I tried, beer could never replace her. You know that."

"Ya, I know a lot of things, Clyde", Dayle told him. "You know what I don't know, that's been bothering me?"

"What's that?"

"How you were totally fine yesterday- not a problem in the fucking sky for you, and now after you got back from bank you're this lowly miserable, hunk of sadness. It's pissing me off a little, I won't lie to you about that. It's annoying. At least fucking explain it to me. A little bit. Something."

Clyde chuckled, than sipped his beer. "Motherfucker- if I knew what was bothering me so much I'd tell you myself. But listen fucker- I don't know. I have no clue. All I know is that I hate the world and I hate myself. But there's nothing new about that is there? Just me being fucking old, right?"

"You are fucking old", Dayle reasoned with him. "Sixty-fucking-eight, Clyde. You're as old as Hitlers bullet you fuck. But listen...I don't fucking care about all the things you hate, because- listen, we're old as dick. We already hate everything. We're supposed to hate everything. Its how we function. It's just how it is. We've been through everything and we don't like to see things change, so we hate it. We hate it all. But listen man, I don't give two fat fucks about what you don't like- or what you hate, because I hate the exact same things you do. It's just a repeat of what I told myself last week. And we don't have many more weeks, Clyde. So I want to hear good things. I want to hear things you enjoy. Fun things. Nice things. Let's fill the end of our life's with fresh berries, not rotten fucking tomatoes. You get that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Fuck...I get it."

"Exactly. Thank you. Jesus. We're too old to be complaining aloud like that. Too old to be upset, or sad. We've lived our lives, we've been sad through most of it. A good portion. There's no room for it in our veins anymore. Otherwise they'd fucking explode. My heart already gots issues- don't need no more."

The bird came by with a black tray of empty mugs on her shoulder. She was so short and so scrawny, it was a shock to see her carry it like she was. She set it on the counter and started filling up the mugs from the fancy taps in the wall. She filled every single one over the brim, which wasn't an accident, but on purpose. She knew the old heads well. It added to the aesthetic of it all, the pub, the mead. She was great. And when the mugs were filled and back on the black tray, she filled up both of Dayle's mugs without a word from his mouth, or a glance toward him. She just knew. She knew.

"Thank you", Dayle was grateful for his drink. He needed them. She nodded and was gone.

"...Do you think she gets joy out of seeing your reaction?" Clyde asked curiously. "Does she benefit at all from hearing your 'thank yous'?"

"Do you even care how she feels, Clyde?" Dayle asked.

"I think so. Maybe more curious than caring."

"At least you're honest."

"Have to be. Too old to lie..."

"Too fucking old."

The white wooden door clicked shut, Clyde's fingers twisted the steel lock; the click sounded like a mouse's gun. He turned his head and saw his reflection in the vertical mirror. He didn't like what he saw; an elderly bag of sag that hated the world and hated himself more. He groaned and shook his head, to the mirror he gave a firm middle-finger before he left his gaze and walked to the other end of his bedroom. His gait was slow, his body too old, his fat dragging him down like an anchor at sea. He came to his window and opened up the light gray fabric drapes, which hung perfectly in the window, not covering up too much, nor too little. He placed his hands in the cleanly white windowsill, not a speck of dust, not one dead spider, not a single rotting fly...He gave a slight grin at that. His daughter was too clean, willingly cleaning a room that was not hers. Getting in the very nick of the tiniest details…

Clyde looked out the window, the cityscape of a compact town laid out neatly before him. Yet not neat. He slid open his window to the world, a puff of warm air smothered his face and he breathed in the scent of city dust and sun-baked buildings.

Clyde stayed in the window for a moment. He watched a small murder of crows flutter by. A flock of Robin's followed them, chasing them off. The blued-eyed elder turned and sauntered to the edge of his bed, where he sat. His bag of thoughts were slightly empty, just the dust of other thoughts lingering behind. Like his receipt from the bank he got this morning. Like that damn crackhead. The big black man. The businessman man. The pub. He was just thinking. He didn't like thinking. It hurt his brain. Made him feel like an idiot when his thoughts got to be too much, when they moved too fast for him. He just didn't know and he didn't know how to process it all...He didn't know what to do with himself. A childish concept. He was confused and lost. He shouldn't have been either. He was a grandfather, going on great grandfather...What would he do with his receipt...?

That was the real question. The one that bothered him. The one that hurt his brain. Attacked it, eating his neurons up like an inmate's last meal...He just missed her, he realized in his silence- and actually admitted it, to his surprise. His gaze was directed at nothing. He was lost in his head. He missed her. The way she handled problems and issues. She was so skilled and intelligent. She had an answer- and the right answer at that, to literally everything. There wasn't a single thing she couldn't answer. She knew it all, and she knew it well and all over. Like the way a dog knew its owner, knew the places it had pissed, shit, vomited, every park it had been to…

Jesus Lord, he missed her. It had been three years since she passed, which seems like a long time, it seems like it was enough to move on, and it was. He wasn't upset about her death, he wasn't sad by her departure anymore. He was okay with it, alright with it. He just needed her now and he missed the things she could do for him. The way she fixed it all.

Clyde snickered to himself. He was a fucking child. Complaining about not having someone to fix his shit for him. Whining over not knowing how to do something. He was a fucking toddler. He shook his head at himself. And he laughed a little more than before. He was clinically retarded- why would such a minor thing upset him so?

"Fuckin' puss", he told himself under his breathe. He stood and took two steps forward and slid open his white closet door. Clothes hung low, hiding boxes and various items sitting on the floor. He knelt on one knee and than on the other. He moved one box off of another, placing it on his side, than he pulled the cardboard top off the bottom box. A tan steel Ruger 5.7 lay atop stacks of papers, photos, maps, and a box of rounds; 28mm, blue-tip.

He whistled. "Pretty." A slightly heavy double knock came to his door. "Dad?" The muffled voice of his eldest daughter tickled his ear.

"Yes, sweetie?" He picked up the Ruger, feeling its mighty heft in his hand. He popped the magazine out, noticing it was empty.

"Oh you are in there. Julie said you hadn't come home yet", Litia said, humor in her voice. "What a dummy."

"Be nice, Litia."

"No way."

"Don't make me come out there."

It made her laugh. "Sure- but we were wondering if you wanted to go out tonight?"

"For?" He popped the mag back in, pulling the head back, looking into the chamber. Clear and clean.

"Breakfast. Earls Place, that little spot on the corner of 31st."

"Hm", he hummed, wondering. "It does sound nice."

"Good. We're leaving in like, five minutes or something. Big dummy downstairs doesn't know how to buckle a carseat in."

"I didn't say yes."

"You did too", her voice got high. Clyde could hear her smile.

"You little fucker. Alright, whatever."

"That's what I thought- you know you want to see the waitress' ass and tits hanging out anyway." Clyde snickered. He did. "Ya that's right. Now, let's go."

"One sec, one sec..."

...Clyde wore two thoughts in his head; both were so profoundly idiotic that they were funny. "...One sec." He snickered quietly to himself. "Idiot."

And the large plate slid in front of him, like a pig's slop would appear before its beady eyes. "Here you are", the waitress said with a smile far too familiar to Clyde.

That fake plastered grin that seemed to be taught in every job training ever. She slid a plate before both his daughters, Julie's fiance and their kid, who sat in a high chair. Clyde had three dinner plate sized blueberry pancakes sitting before him. The blueberries were comically blue, seemingly processed and false. The top of the pancake was so smooth it seemed cartoonish- not a bubble, not a crater, not a divet. The pretty bird set a steel syrup container before him, with a little bowl of fake butter. "Enjoy", she had said before she walked away. Clyde looked at her ass as she left. Even that seemed false. He shook his head.

"Not good enough for you?" Litia asked, humor in her voice again. It was her most common attribute.

Clyde looked at her, blinked twice and spoke. "Too fake for me."

Litia tilted her head. "Fair enough. Try your pancakes, maybe it'll make up for it."

Clyde blinked. "It's too bright in here. Even the damn lighting is fake."

"Wait until he realizes his blueberries were died blue", Dylan -Julie's fiancé- said to Julie with a smile and a grin.

"You use viagra, Dylan", Clyde countered. He stared into his soul, straight-faced. "Shut the fuck up."

Dylan did not laugh. Litia laughed so hard she was crying, and yet she remained silent. The baby laughed with Litia. Dylan nodded.

"That's not nice, dad" Julie said.

Clyde smirked at her. "I don't give a fuck."

His words made Litia laugh harder, somehow she remained silent. She hadn't breathed in forty seconds. Litia laughing made Clyde laugh. He picked up his butter knife and fork and cut a triangle out of the three flapjacks and took a bite. Without looking at Dylan, he insulted him one more time. "Fuck you, Dylan."

Litia finally spoke. "Dad- dad", she said through tears and paused laughter. "I-I can't- fucking breathe."

"Good", Clyde said, eating his pancakes. They were fucking magnificent. And he hated it. He hated it like he hated the Nazi's. He pulled his lip up, angry at the taste. He continued to chew and than swallowed. He shook his head. These should not have been this good. The blueberries weren't even the right color- the texture of the pancakes were artificial. They were fake. Fake...And he liked it. His whole life crumbled before his eyes, he fell silent, he set down his fork and knife and folded his hands under his face. He closed his eyes…

If things were allowed to be fake, and if they were better than the original- the honest truth...what was the fucking point? What was the point of originality? What was the point of truth? Of honesty? Of integrity? Of genuineness...? The fucking point was lost. Gone for a million miles south- never to be seen again. And Clyde felt sick. He would vomit. His head spun. Black dots- white dots- vision blurry. 

"Dad?" Litia called as she noticed the spurt of the episode happening. "...What do you need?" 

"...A damn beer", Clyde responded quietly, his lungs not holding enough air. He hoped he’d die. He hoped it didn't hurt to die. 

"I can't get you a beer, dad- you know that."

"...I don't care", Clyde rested his forehead on his folded hands. He felt himself shaking in his shoulders- his knees were sweating, his throat was dry...He hoped he'd die again. And he did not. "Bullshit", he raised his head, entirely fine it seemed. "Pancakes aren't real- can't drink a fucking beer." Clyde stood abruptly and made for the exit of the diner. 

"Dad, sit, please", Litia called. 

"I'll sit when I'm dead", Clyde said as he walked away, pushing open the door, then his body stopped moving- it seized up, paralyzing him and Clyde fell into a midnight pit. 

And the smell hit his nose like an anchor hits the bottom of the sea floor- Clyde could taste the fucking smell. It disgusted him, made his eyes water. He groaned, his eyes not opening yet, he didn't will them too. A horrible thing he might see if he opened them. He kept them closed. Jesus, he was tired. And that smell...God awful- Clyde would rather smell a rotting corpse than this paralyzing smell. "...Why am I in a fucking hospital bed?" Clyde asked as he opened his eyes. No one was there in front of him. The tiny TV played Family Feud with Steve Harvey- he hated Family Feud, it was the death of comedy. Clyde had that thin white hospital sheet over him, the blanket that was never warm and never kept anything warm at all. Clyde sighed as he lay there. He had to piss. He threw the blanket off him and tried to sit up.

"Hey. Nurse said don't get up without assistance", Dylan's voice said. Clyde turned and there he was in his brown, unlabeled shirt- semi-long, sort of curled brown hair. He had one leg resting up on his knee- his blue jeans loose, his boots not even slightly worn in.

Clyde looked at him stupidly. "Well where's my assistance, cause all I see is you." He laughed slightly to himself. "It was a joke you fucking...ya you got it. I'm too tired to make fun of you." He got on the edge of the hospital bed and safely met the cold tile floor. Than he realized he was in his hospital gown, his old ass hanging out for Dylan to see. Clyde heard him groan. "What? You like what you see lady-boy?" He chuckled and walked to the bathroom, a mere ten steps for him in the hotel-sized room. He opened the door, shuffled in like the old ass he was and closed it. There was a massive mirror on the wall as he walked in. He saw his age reflected poorly back at him. His wrinkles were long and wavy, his sunspots thick and constant, eyebags, pasty white skin, veins poking through like curious snakes. His double chin of loose skin, he pinched it and toyed with it while he gave himself a disgusted look. 'Who in their right mind wants to live to be this old?' He shook his head and wobbled to the white throne, lifted the lid and sat. He leaned back and sighed. It felt nice, that cold potty. He looked over and caught his own glance in the mirror. "Disgusting", he told himself. He shook his face like a wet bulldog and watched his loose skin jiggle. Than he laughed at himself.

At least it was real. He wasn't getting surgery down to look younger, to feel more spry- to lie to himself, really is what he'd be doing. It was just all lying. Disgusting. He couldn't. He couldn't handle the people who did…

He was done pissing, but didn't want to get back up. He'd have to go sit out there with Dylan. He groaned. Fucking Dylan. He wanted to be alone. Just for a little bit. Or for the rest of time. Time...His brain hurt. Why did his brain hurt? ...Time? What about it...? He blinked, than tapped his pockets- he didn't have pockets. "Fuck", he said aloud to himself. His pockets. Where were his pockets? He stood, didn't flush, and walked out of the bathroom into the hospital room. From across the room he spoke to Dylan. "Where are my pockets?"

"Your pockets?" Dylan repeated, setting his phone down. "Your...your pants, you mean?"

Cylde felt stupid. He ignored it. "Yes. Yes. My fucking pants. Where are they?"

"Litia took them home to wash. You pissed in them."

"Gross", Clyde graveled to himself. "I'm not that old."

"You aren't", Dylan agreed. "The doctor explained the condition to us- she should be coming back in to explain it to you."

Clyde groaned like a child being forced into something. "Are you fucking with me? I hardly want to talk to you, now I have to some fucking chick? Fucking shoot me now."

Dylan ignored the insult- he'd suffered from them for years. "Hey. If you can sit through her speech, without throwing a single insult, or complaining at all...I'll give you a prize..." Dylan reached into his bag and showed Cylde a beer.

Clyde gasped. "No..."

Dylan nodded. "Yes. All twelve...just for you." Cylde didn't know what to do. "Sit down. She'll be here soon."

Clyde was flabbergasted- unsure how to feel. Dylan was doing something nice and in some states, illegal...Clyde liked it. And he listened, he sat on the bed. "You're changing, Dylan. I like this new you."

"That's nice. But he's not staying. Litia told me to treat you nicely. This is the nicest thing I could do for you."

"...One of the nicest."

"I'm pretty sure this is a misdemeanor."

Clyde laughed. "That's it?"

Dylan smiled and shook his head. "Just pay attention when she talks, alright? It's important you listen."

"Sir, yes, sir", Clyde gave a sarcastic salute as he lay in his bed. "...The fuck happened to me anyway?"

"...The doctor can explain it to you", Dylan said, getting back on his phone. Clyde rolled his eyes at him and huffed a sigh. 'Fucking loser', he thought.

Clyde watched Family Feud for seven and a half minutes before the nurse knocked on the door. A second later she opened it and the doctor in her blue scrubs entered. The nurse left, closing the door, the doctor smiled. Clyde spent the seconds of her approach to discern whether or not it was genuine. She might have been too good at fake smiling. Too good. Normally he could tell. She was Indian with dark skin- lovely skin and thick hair. She was pretty. It didn't help her narrative. She could sell her lies so easily with all that beauty.

And this is where Clyde would get in trouble- he watched her mouth move, but his ears did not catch a sound, nor a whisper of what the fuck she had just said to him. He didn't really care anyway. What could she say to him that he didn't already know? He was just a little worried about his receipt he left in his pants pocket...and he thought about that for a while, as he pretended to listen to the doctor. He should have been fine, as long as Litia washed them for him. She always cleared his pockets before the wash. She knew how he stuffed them full of random things- like change and receipts and gum, things that shouldn't be washed.

Her voice clicked back on and it startled him- it was like when the TV was muted for too long and than you turned it back on. It jolted his brain. "-and this form of PTSD is serious for your age, and can limit an individual's processing capabilities. It's sort of...eating away at your neurons. You get it? No more questions?" She asked.

Clyde looked at her. "...Why did I piss myself?"

"CNS malfunction."

Clyde didn't know what that meant. He didn't care. He wanted a beer, or Sixteen and maybe a pie...he chuckled in his head. A pie. When was the last time he had a pie?

"You do understand the severity of your post traumatic stress disorder, don't you?" The doctor asked as she watched him stare off at Family Feud, a slight grin on his face.

He turned back to her. "I'm going to die quicker than I was before. That right?"

She didn't like hearing that. "...Yes. That's correct. But-"

"Than I understand. I got it. Loud and clear."

She wasn't frustrated- mostly because she was experienced and doctors got that training on how to deal with stubbornness and incompetence- both in Clyde's case. Although Clyde could sense some sullen sadness from her. "...I know death doesn't scare you. It never does with your type. But death scares the rest of your family. And I certainly know you love them and couldn't see them hurt. Give me one last favorite, Clyde..." her eyes got wide, and loving. The browns were so...vivid. Clyde felt bad. He listened as his heart pounded. "Care", she said.

His heart ached. And he nodded. "...I got it, Doc."

She nodded. "Thank you." And then she left.

Clyde hesitated. He wanted his beer, but her words had struck him in a way he had not expected them to. 'Care'.

"You want your beer now?" Dylan asked.

Cylde paused, pondering. "...Do you like pie, Dylan?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"Fucking- well ya, but look at me dumbass", Clyde spoke, giggling his belly. "My bowels could eat you alive. Jesus- fuck, nevermind. I'm getting you a damn pie. Quite being sensitive." Clyde stood. "Take me away gay Peter Pan."

Dylan snickered at that one. "Damnit. Do I get to make PTSD jokes now?"

"Only if you like getting throat-punched."

"Piss jokes?"

Clyde laughed. "If your little brain could even form a proper piss joke- by all means."

"Challenge accepted."

"If they're bad I'll sack-tap you."

"Nevermind."

Clyde tisked. "You're no fun."

"I committed a misdemeanor for you", he said, gathering his things, getting ready to leave.

"If you were really fun you'd bring in a squirt gun and threaten all the disabled kids with it." Clyde laughed to himself. "Now that's fun, Dylan!"

"I'm not a psychopath. Now let's go, before someone checks my bag."

"Psychopaths are fun, Dylan! Just look at me!"

And she thrusted it down onto the table, her mouth silent, her breath heavy- Clyde swore he could hear her heartbeat, swore he could feel its thump-thump through the vibration of the air. Even he froze for a second, shocked, a little frightened. Why so? He couldn't tell you. He did not know. His lemon pie was gone, the cardboard box left empty on the table, crumps and lemon filling left in its insides- like a murder scene. The lemon scent had filled the air...And when no one said anything, Litia did- she towered over her sitting father. She took her hands off her hips, placing them on her side. She paused, not exactly knowing what to say next. What to do next. And she spoke. Not speaking because she knew what to say, but because the silence of the room and the table demanded words be spoken. "...What is this?"

"A receipt", Clyde answered evenly. "From the bank."

Litia was feeling emotional. She didn't know why she felt such a way. It could have been a really positive thing. Or a really terrible thing. A person's transactions with time, more specifically a human's transactions with time, are often so...multipurposeful. One could have time available for a multitude of reasons, purposes- it was neverending with time, which was why time worked so much better as a currency. Everyone wanted time. Time was something everyone needed, everyone desired it. It was romanticized. Time was hypnotic. A drug. Worse yet, an addiction. Confronting a family member about a loose bank receipt was like confronting your uncle about his gambling addiction, and the debt he was in.

"...You know how much that says?" Litia asked.

"Should we go?" Julie asked, worriedly. Dylan shook his head, the baby in his high chair next to him.

"I don't know actually", Clyde answered. "I never looked."

"Should I tell you, or do you want to look for yourself?" Litia asked.

"How my gosh. How much is it?" Julie wondered, reaching across the table for the tan bank receipt. She read it, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She didn't say a word, and she handed it to Dylan.

"Fuck", he said. He drew a breath, and tossed the paper back into the center of the table.

"...What are you going to use it for, dad?" Litia asked. "Is it for you? Do you have an addiction?"

Clyde pulled his lip up, sort of disgusted. "No. I have no addiction."

"Than what is it for?" She pushed.

"I don't know."

"You dont- how do you not know- you withdrew it?" Litia asked.

"It was an impulse. I just did. The damn fuck in front of me made me do it. He took out a hundred and I felt just something come over me. Like I needed to. It felt right. I don't know about it now, but..."

"...Do you want to use it?" Litia asked.

Clyde pursed his lips. A surge of internal motivation washed over him like the riptide of some northern beach...his teeth chattering, the feeling was so powerful. The things he could do with it- all that time. Too much time...he could- no, don't dwell on it. He stopped himself. "I'm also...not sure. I have a few more years."

"-You don't, dad", Julie corrected. She turned to Dylan. "Did he not hear anything the doctor told him?"

Dylan spoke with a hand up, like he was looking for help from the old man. "I thought he did. He looked like he did."

Clyde snorted, palming his face. "How long do I have than? According to the doctor."

"The doctor is right, dad", Julie told him.

"How long-"

"A year", Litia answered. "You have one more year. Your condition is worsening and if...". And her words drifted off past his ears, into the infinite white nothingness...He heard nothing, he felt nothing. All was white. Than he sort of smiled and sort of nodded. 

And Clyde stood, walked to the door, grabbed his coat off the rack and walked out of the door. Although there was certainly someone calling out to stop him, he did not hear them...he did not hear anything. And he left, like the piece of shit he was.

And their voices were sweet and seductive like the mermaids the sailors fell for. They called out numbers to Clyde as he walked past their corners, stumbling through the night.

'Thirteen hours, baby- that's all I need, and I'll give you everything you want.' Some went lower, some higher- Thirteen hours was generally the price for a prostitute. It equated to a hundred dollars roughly. With a hundred dollars she couldn't buy much coke, and she couldn't buy much heroin, or much weed- whatever she preferred; whatever her pimp preferred. But with thirteen hours she could split that amongst her dealers, her pimp- than go and trade in the rest of her time for groceries, maybe a little rent if the landlord took blowjobs as currency.

...Clyde kept walking, but the ladies' words still reached him. 'I can do ten hours! Darling, ten hours isn't bad!' Part of Clyde wanted to get his dick sucked, part of him wanted to snort a line or two- but that was only part of him. That was part of a lot of people, most people in some cases. And for some people that part of people were larger than they should be. Incredibly overweight. For Clyde, the largest part of him was his hatred. His hatred for himself, for humanity- for the nitwits and imbeciles. For the Socialists, for the Communists- for the druggies, for the addicts. Clyde hated most kinds of people, but he hated them because of what they were, what they stood for. Trash. Garage. That's what they stood for and nothing else. They were the worst kinds of people, and he hated them for being the worst, for not being better. For not standing up for themselves and getting better, and becoming kinder, lovable creatures of earth...Which was precisely the reason he hated himself the most- even amongst the murderers, chomos and junkies. The addicts. He was the worst human in the filthiest pile of junk. He was the ugliest rat. The dirtiest street dog. He didn't smoke crack, or beat his kids. He just hated everyone, and because he could never love anyone ever again, that made him the worst man. The worst human alive since Khan, maybe Hitler. Even Hitler loved the German people and kept them from the dangers of lung cancer...He loved no one. Not since her. It had been years since he loved anyone. She brightened his world. She made everything feel okay. She made the world warm and cuddly. Now he was back to his old roots, when he was a kid, smoking cigarettes and getting into fist fights. This was the old him. The slimly rat was back in the long coat... 

"Fucking hell..." Clyde sighed to himself, shook his head and entered the twenty-four hour convenience store. His hands in his pockets, his head hung like a noose. He walked to the refrigerated isle in the back, grabbed a sixteen pack of Blue Moon. It felt heavier than it should have been. To pair with it, a Mango Jumex and a Vanilla Milkshake. He walked up to the front, on his way there he passed the candy aisle, but was greatly uninterested in the candy, rather he gawked at the chips at the bottom. He grabbed a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Lay's, oddly proud, and he rang up his items at the register.

"Is that all, sir?", the teenager asked, his music blasting so loud through his headphones Clyde could hear the lyrics to the egregious rap song.

"Let me get a pack of smokes and a lighter. If you would", Clyde said, unsure if the kid could hear him at all.

"Which kind?" He asked, unenthused.

Clyde waved his hand like a wizard. "Whichever. I haven't smoked in fifteen years, I don't know what's good anymore."

The kid snorted. "I feel that." He turned and grabbed the most popular of the packs, a brightly colored paper box. The price was sitting at sixteen dollars and thirty-two cents. "Are you sure you want cigarettes, sir?" The kid asked. "Just like the price and all. Plus...they aren't really that good for you, but..."

"Kid", Clyde smiled. "Look at what I'm buying here. I'm thinking about getting a hooker- you think I care about my health?"

And together they shared a laugh; a real and genuine laugh. The kid didn't fake it- you couldn't fake that sound, that mirth and merriment. "That's fair. That's fair", and the kid laughed some more. Real, genuine laughter. Clyde couldn't believe it.

"Hey kid", Clyde said. "When's your shift over?"

He looked at his phone which was set on the counter- he couldn't read the clock mounted on the wall. "I got forty-five minutes. When the store closes."

"You like beer?"

"I like whiskey."

Clyde nodded. "What brand?" He asked as he walked back to the whiskey.

"Huh- Skrewball", the kid answered, slightly in awe, slightly confused.

"Good choice. Very good", he snatched the bottle by the neck as if assaulting an aggravated goose. "It's a good taste, but sorta pussy-like." He walked up to the counter and the kid rang it up.

"Ya I know", the kid scratched his head. "I...Are you serious? That's for me?"

Clyde chuckled. "It is. I'll leave it behind the trash can out back for you- but...do you know why, kid? Why I’m buying you something fantastic like this? It's not out of the kindness of my heart."

"Huh", the kid was lost. "Sir, I couldn't tell you if I tried."

"...Because you're still real enough to laugh with me", Clyde told him honestly. "You're honest. You're a little rough for a kid your age, but being genuine and being a real person makes up tenfold for that...Listen, kid. Everyone you'll meet after you turn twenty, is going to wear fake smiles, fake laughs- they're not going to like you at all, but they’ll lie to you and say that they do. They'll say they care, they'll say they love you even- but kid, they don't. They almost never do. They just say these things to make you feel bad and it's a lie. It's all a lie. When you're older you'll be able to tell the fakes from the real- you can tell by their smiles, their eyes. Your eyes are kind and real, kid. Don't ever fucking lose that...They all lose it. Don't you let it go. Don't be like them. Be honest. Chase the truth like you chase pussy."

He chuckled at that. "Yes, sir, I will. Thank you."

"You're welcome. It's a small gift. It's smaller than the gift you gave me, I'll tell you that right now." Clyde nodded, taking his stuff in the thin plastic bag, carrying the box of beer in three tight fingers. "Behind the trash can, kid. Look forward to it, you earned it, believe me."

"Thank you."

And Clyde was off, traveling back through the streetlight lit night. The midnight-esque air, the cool dampness. And he walked. He crossed the street and walked, watching the street numbers drop, one by one- twenty-fourth, twenty-third, twenty-second, twenty-first. Cars and their lights were scarce, like bison on the prairie. Like shooting stars. Clyde turned right on twentieth, and crossed the street- never at the crosswalk, always jaywalking along that asphalt, crossing the yellow-dotted lines. He walked for two blocks until he reached the grass field park, with the large oaks swaying in the too-subtle breeze. He walked along the stone railing which kept the rushing canal waters segregated from passengers. He came up to an aged stone bench which sat close to the canal, close to the railing. Clyde set his beer down next to him with a glass bottle jingle. He sat…

He listened to the turning sounds of rushing canal water. There was no other sound to compete for his attention. He dug in his bag and found his pack of cigarettes, he found the red litter. He flicked the pack like an old head, and opened it- his heart pulsated when he saw those tobacco tops- his mouth salivated and his teeth chattered. A junkie, back to his old ways. "Fifteen years. Fifteen years, Martha and here I am again- doing this bullshit." He reached for a cig and his fingers were shaking, his shoulder as well. He put his arm down and chuckled a laugh. "Maybe save that for later...You see this shit Martha? It's ridiculous, isn't it." He huffed, dug in his plastic, fish-suffocating, bag and brought out his chips. He popped open the bag and took a whiff. "Eeh. How did you like these?" He took one and munched, the taste indifferent, overpowering- but...silently seductive. "I mean...they're alright, aren't they. Just...I don't even know how to describe them." He snorted and shuffled a handful into his mouth. "Like, they aren't good, but they aren't bad, you know? I feel like I'm going to be craving these later...Whenever later is. Not now, right Martha?...That's what you always said...'Not now'."

He shoveled more chips into his mouth, than more when he finished those. The dust stuck on his lips, and tongue. The taste intoxicating the same way a bad beer was. Clyde set the bag down and reached for his vanilla milkshake. He shook it, than opened it- drinking milky air bubbles before the white-gold liquid reached his lips. He drank too much before he set it down. He capped it and set it aside...Casually, he listened to the waters and passively ate his chips. He licked his lips, coming on to the taste finally- halfway through the bag. He rolled it up and set it back in the sea-strangling bag. He pried open his box of beer with a struggle and grabbed a brown bottle. "Well shit...didn't think this far. I bet you're laughing at me now aren't ya, Martha? Ya. Ya fuck you too." He chuckled, than reached for the red lighter, placed it under the ridged lip of the cap and tried to pop it off. His first attempt failed, as did his second- but his third worked perfectly, the cap flew in the air and rolled to his feet. "Ha-ha! Now whose laughing?" Clyde reclined, sipping on his slightly foamy beer. He paused for a long while, beer in his hand, his ear listening to the rush some distance away. "...At least we had beer in common. Not so much chips, but-" he shrugged, "-chips don't build love. Chocolates do. Everyone knows that. And flowers. And beer...and whiskey. Whiskey builds love. You didn't make me stop drinking. They did." He sipped his beer. His sip turned into something more. He tore the bottle from his lips. "...You made me stop smoking though. Which was fair", he titled his head. "Cancer-causing and what not. They have warning labels now, which is ironic. And the prices- goodness. Outrageous. For twenty sticks." Clyde paused, finished his beer and placed it back in the box. He reached for the cigs and picked one out of the bunch. He put it to his lips and before he lit it, he spoke to Martha. "Don't patronize me." And he lit it, be breathed in that smoke, that cancer, let it sit and fester in his lungs. And slowly...out his nose, out his mouth. A puff of midnight smoke rolled out into the orange streetlight…

He sighed, reclining further. His head grew light and wavy. "...It feels so good. You know it does..." He drifted into the classical drug-induced euphoria. Everything was black bliss. "...I know I'm just like the rest of them now. I get it. I'm addicted. I'm addicted to the perils of Capitalism...We all are. And that makes it okay at first. It seems okay. Until you realize it's all danger. It's all detrimental to your health...But it tastes so fucking good. This milkshake is gold to peasants. These cigarettes a small sniff of heroine-like euphoria. They all understand what I mean by it. They know why I hate the world- because we're weak and we give into what kills us. We're all fucking dying...I more so then the rest. And that's my fault. I gave in to the drugs and the addicts. No one forced it. No one made me...But no one stopped me either. Just you. Just you, Martha. And now look at me! Right back to where I started. But that's okay. It's okay because I'm going to die soon. I mean so are the rest of them- everyone is going to die, but not as soon as I..."

He puffed the cigarette hard, exhaled and puffed again. His teeth chattering in nicotine. Also in depression. But don't tell Martha that...

"They can still make something of themselves. Do something with it all. They have the time to develop discipline, to make more money, to spend more time with everyone, to care about everyone else- to actually enjoy the earth for what it is...And God. I know, I know, you don't have to remind me- I don't believe in Him. I didn't have enough time on Earth to awaken to the idea. I didn't want to accept Him because of the things he's done. But I was wrong. Me. I am in the wrong for thinking such...foul things. God did nothing. And I know you mean the best for me, Martha...I hope He lets me spend my eternity with you. I know I don't deserve it. I know I'm the bad guy; the villian...I just...", he sighed. "...I didn't have enough time. Not enough. It was never enough. I didn't have long enough to be good, to be educated like you, to be kind like you- I was bitter. I am still. I have a year left...A year I want to throw it in the fucking trash. I want to die! I want you. I want to see you. I can't fucking stand this place. I can't stand myself...I am nothing without your grace...Martha...take me away...God...take me away..." Clyde spent a long time in silence. No one came to take him away. No one came at all.

"...I should be good..." was all he said in the midst of the silence. "I don't fear God. I don't even believe in Him. Can’t...I won't let myself. I fear man's free will. It's too powerful for mere men to have. We're fucking monkeys with clothes on damnit. Who would give us such a fucking ability? To choose. Choose Capitalism or Communism- Democracy or Monarchy." He sighed. "Money or Time. War or pacifism...It was the worst thing God ever did. The fuck am I even talking about? Rambling about something I have no comprehension of, to a girl who has been dead for three years...I am insane." He sat in that for a while. "...Might as well have another beer than", and he popped the cap on a second bottle, and lit another cigarette. He had the whole night ahead of him. And a whole year ahead of that...What was the fucking point of trying anymore? What good would it do him to turn his life around now? He was heading straight for the iceberg either way- whether he totally turned that wheel, or didn't...The ship would sink. Why prevent a catastrophe if that catastrophe was bound to happen regardless of influence?

Like a ship at sea. Like a comet flying through the empty banks of space. What was the point?

And if Clyde was twenty-something, and he had a brain, and he had a heart and maybe- just maybe, if he had a relationship with God and some mental discipline...maybe he'd drop all the addictions. Maybe he'd throw all the fucking problems in the dumpster, and turn his life around. Have a clean and sober existence. A good existence. A life with Martha, where they'd both live into old age- neither of them constricted by the drugs they were on...Maybe if that were the case it would all be okay, and he'd be happy with her. He'd be happy knowing God was above him, behind him…with him. He'd be happy knowing that he did good enough with the life he was given and that he enjoyed it enough to die with a smile.

But this time around, he would not die with a smile. He wouldn't even die with tears in his eyes, repenting- begging the Creator for forgiveness. He would die quietly. To a disease he could have prevented, but chose not to...And Clyde sat there in the midnight hour, smoking his cigarettes and drinking his beer, like the urchin he was. Like the absolute filth he was. Scum of the Earth.

And he had to be proud of it because it was all he had. It was all he had known and all he was. And he would have to die the same way he was born. In filth. In his own disgust for himself and the world he was brought up in.

Everyone was addicted to something. Everyone lied to themselves and especially everyone around them. Clyde was just glad that out of everything he was addicted to- he wasn't addicted to time. 

And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was enough of an accomplishment to have, that he could die peacefully and in serenity...He closed his eyes waiting for Death to take him- willingly, he would go if that Mistress would ever come for him...And after such a long while, he sighed and cracked another beer.