Irish/Caribbean Summer.
by Candis Jean
There is a half naked tattooed guy who now stays in my apartment. I do not know his name, or why he never wears a shirt, but he is there and his abs remind me of when I used to sneak peeks at chiseled men on the covers of romance novels. Yes, I still blush the way I did when I was twelve. It is annoying, and I am annoyed.
Tonight I got hit in the face by a girl singing Danny Boy in the off key of F. I wanted to hit her back, but it seemed unprecedented, as she was “in the moment” and flailing her arms. I could have busted out a musical number and socked her right back, but it didn’t seem Christian.
I am not Christian, but she was. She asked me what I would name my children. She asked me how I felt about my father. I smoked more cigarettes than usual, and did not answer her. She had this terrible habit of swaying back and forth when she talked, like a metronome. Or one of those clown dolls you’re supposed to punch.
There was a psych study done (in the 60s?) on children about the influence of those punch dolls. Psychologists were surprised at one girl’s anger and originality at brutalizing the toy, but if that clown doll had been murdering Oh, Danny Boy the way this girl was, no one could have blamed her.
Most of my time is spent revising and editing. It is summer, the fan is broken, and the neighbors outside my window have taken up the xylophone and host a lot of Caribbean themed parties, at which I imagine they work on their limbo.
My headphones are half-broken, and the alley sends up echoes to my bed. It feels like I’m at the party with them, which is nice, because I have deadlines, and am locked into this city until they’re complete.
