To Whom It May Concern: by M.J. Garrett (books to get back into reading .TXT) 📕

fix all of those movies? She thinks about him while Tom continues on, she isn’t really listening to him at this point. She thinks about how they shared that cigarette, and how handsome he looked in those sunglasses. She thinks about the look of embarrassment on his face when she found him in front of the porn section. She thinks about the way he looked at her when he stood beside his car. She thinks about how he opened the door for her and the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her while she talked with Tom. She remembered how Tom jealously stared at him while she was at the counter. The way he smelled so clean, and every hair was perfectly placed on his head. She thought about all of it.

She thought about the experience she had when she woke up on his leather couch and how the room spun as she laid there. She thought about the tattoo on her back. Where it came from or how she got it. What was so important about him?

Tom continued. “….and you know what else? I think he’s gay. Who else would rent the movie Thr3e? Only a pole-smoking, peter-puffing homosexual would waste his time on a movie like that.”

“You’re an asshole, Tom. I’m sorry; who did you say straightened them?” She asked him, again; acting angry because Tom didn’t fall into her little trap of fixing the movies himself. She pushes her hip out to the side and places her hands on her hips, like a spoiled little girl.

“Oh! That was sexy!” He mumbles with egg running down his chin. As he licks the last bit of sauce from the back of his, she turns and walks away with her middle finger sticking in the air. She was only his cousin by marriage, he thought to himself. What’s so wrong about that?

“Clean your face, you idiot!” She turns the corner, still giving him the bird. He chuckles at the exchange of words and gestures, then turns toward the register. He sees an old lady, probably in her 60’s using a metal walker for assistance, politely staring back at him.

Pointing to her chin, reminding him of the mess on his chin, she says, “Do you want me to get that for you?” She then licks her lips, as to insinuate a sexual favor.

Tom, trying to be nice, says, “Thanks, but you know what…I’m gay!” He smacks his lips and sucks the taste off of his teeth.

The old lady responded with a deeper than usual voice, “Good…because I used to be a man.”

Tom paused for a moment. He blinked a couple of times and just stared at the lady across the counter. Held up by her walker, she bashfully lowered her head and smiled. Tom swallows the left over egg that lingers in his mouth and yells, “Security!”

*

She laid there in her bed and stared at the clock. The red digital clock reads 2:08 a.m. She closed her eyes for a moment and then she heard the soft voice coming from the corner of her dark room. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, do you dear?” She lay frozen on the bed in fear. Scared to move, she squeezed her eyes shut to where she could only hear the sound of her breathing and felt the pounding in her chest start to slowly gain speed. The voice began to move closer to her bed as she slowly slid her hand out of the cover looking for something to use to protect herself. Her hand touches a book, then moves around and touches an old plastic cup that had fallen on the floor probably months ago; still feeling around, she finds a small metal ink pen and wraps her fingers around it. “Let’s not get too hasty…I’m just an old man looking for some things to recycle.” His voice was filled with an Irish accent. He quietly and softly spoke again, “Have you ever heard ‘be careful who your friends are?’ Maybe ‘curiosity killed the cat’ would be a bit better for you to understand, Carla?”

Carla quickly raised her naked torso from the bed and gripped the pen over her head, only to find that the man with the voice wasn’t there. Silence filled the room. Like a thief in the night.


CHAPTER 11

I was 7 and my brother was 9, every day after school, we would walk to the field across the street and wait for Carl and Charlie to meet us. Charlie was the same age of my brother and Carl was my age. We met in that field every day for as long as I could remember. Once we all were together, my brother and Charlie would hand me and Carl their book bags. They would proceed in the everyday ritual of beating each other into bloody pulps. Carl and I couldn’t stand the sight of this, so we would try to intervene and by doing so, we always ended up fighting each other.

Every day at the same time, same place, the same boys would do the same thing. This was our ritual. After the ritual was over, we would lay there in the grass. With bloody noses, cut lips, and black eyes, we all looked up at the sky. Charlie would always ask, “How much longer do we have to do this? My mom’s starting to ask questions.”

“Charlie…” my brother would say, as he tried to catch his breath, “did you see the red Jeep parked in the woods over there? Well, that’s my step dad’s Jeep. He says that if I don’t fight someone every day, he’s going to hurt me and my brother when we come home. I love you, Charlie, and that’s why I pick you to fight. My brother comes first and we’ll always be friends…no matter how many times I kick your ass! Now are you going to invite us over for dinner tonight, or are we going to fight again?” We all laughed as we got off the ground and walked toward the woods to go home.

As the years went by, Charlie and Carl would get placed in foster homes and then finally, an orphanage. I’ve seen the two on occasion, while growing up, mostly at church camps or summer events that the orphanage would put on. We still share the memories of us fighting every day.

They both became preachers. My brother and I? We fought our way through life. Every day, for years, we fought. We fought each other, older kids, younger kids, girls….it didn’t matter. We were trained by our father to fight anyone we could. A child version of fighting dogs. It seems as of lately…I’ve been fighting no one but myself…my past…and my future.

To Whom It May Concern:
Please allow me to be the first to say….I’m lost but don’t need direction. Not yet.

I walk onto my porch and look at the sky. Reaching into the mailbox I pull out a pack of cigarettes. Without looking I grab one and put it in my lips. I quickly light it and notice the clouds are starting to form into quite a potential storm. I turn to look at Carla’s window and notice that she’s sitting on her couch alone…again. I watched her as she sat there glued to the television show. The way she paused the channel when the phone rang, when she got up to get something, or go to another room. Her house looked warm. Her living room looked comfortable, but pieced together with what looked like bargain deal furniture. There was no matching décor or sense of any style…it was just…her.

As the wind began to pick up, I leaned over on the rail of the porch. One by one, large drops of rain begin to splash onto the car and driveway. I could hear the drops hitting the windows of the house as the thunder rumbled violently overhead. It began to seem that nothing was safe from getting wet…except me. Not one drop touched me.

I glanced over at Carla’s house and saw that she was standing at her kitchen window admiring the power of the weather. Her window was blanketed by the rain, making her figure blurry. I wondered about her. I wondered what it was that made her so special. I believe that everyone has something that makes them special. A talent, a way of thinking, different views of the world, save a tree, smoke a tree…there are so many things that people have to offer others. What is it that Carla has to offer?

After the cigarette I close the mailbox and go back into my house. I opened up the fridge and grab the Tupperware container marked Tuesday. Every Sunday I would cook for the week and placing that food in marked containers so that everything remains organized. Tonight’s meal, along with every night’s meal, included one grilled chicken breast, half a cup of corn, and half a cup of green beans, and a light salad. As I sat there with this food in front of me, I began to bow my head. Before I could say anything, I thought about everything. Childhood memories, my brother, step father, Carla, and family…I then thought to myself, “I guess I don’t have to eat alone.” I quietly walked over to look out the window to see if Carla was still standing at hers. She had moved back to the couch and unpaused her TV show. I guess we all have our ideas of a quiet night. As I watched her, the sky lit up with a flash of lightening and the sound of thunder shook the house. She didn’t move or jump…she just sat there watching TV.


CHAPTER 12

Explosions and shockwaves rip through the dusty tent city built in the middle of the Iraqi dessert. Dust and papers fill the air as time begins to slow down to a dramatic pause. Slowly my sense of hearing overcomes the sound of the intense ringing that fills my ears. The sound of flying debris, wavering sirens, and the boots of soldiers running while yelling commands fill my ears as I lay on the floor covered by a cot and small items from my storage closet. The walls of the tents were flapping in the wind as they came loose from the spikes that we used to secure ourselves from the harsh desert heat and wind, as well as unwanted varmints that plague the desert floor. I move my body to see if there is any unusual pain or parts that aren’t working correctly.