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brain-rot-queen · 2 years ago

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Muggy Summers, by Grace Dulin

My twin brother, Bobby, and I had always been close. Mother always used the example of the time that we decided to run for president. We ran on a game changing platform of switching from paper money to acorns, in order to make us and our theoretical squirrel army rich beyond belief. We always thought we were comedians.

It was a balancing act. I was the pragmatic one, blunt and constantly stressed. Bobby was the charm. He made things happen with persuasion and a hint of mischief. We were not to be trifled with. If we set our minds to something, nothing could stop us.

Likely the only thing that stopped us from complete world domination was the third element of our dynamic, our friend Richard “Dick” Klonowski.

Dick was an idiot. To be clear, he was one of the smartest people I have ever met. He was an idiot because he didn’t have a shred of survival instinct. The unluckiest man I have ever met, Dick, never missed an opportunity at a near death experience. If someone was going to fall, get lost, or nearly end up in a fight, it was inevitably going to be him. He had a big mouth and a minimal understanding of social cues. He never looked where he was going, his head clogged up by thoughts on a thousand different topics. His combination of anxiety and bullheadedness probably simultaneously kept us out of trouble and got us roped into different strands of idiocy. Constantly in some argument with his father, a local minister and an almost impressively conservative man. His parents were convinced that I was a seductress, leading their son to hell.

We were inseparable until we graduated from high school. Usually, I would have gone to the lake with my brother to ease the suffocating heat of Tennessee summers. He would take me, Dick, and whatever girlfriend he had at the time to the lake. We would spend the day acting like fools, pretending that our problems had vanished. Dick and I could have gone by ourselves, but it just would not have been the same without Bobby. Bobby was the one that forced us to relax and escape the stress of school and work and our impending futures.

We made a pact after graduation. We wanted to become “real people” as we put it. Dick and I were going out of state for school at different colleges, and Bobby was taking a gap year and becoming the caretaker for our town’s gardens. I wanted to see what the world was like outside of our small town in southern Appalachia. Dick wanted to make something of himself outside of the judgment of his parents. Bobby needed to feel like he was prepared to be an independent, adult human before starting college.

Coming home for fall break felt weird. I knew things would be different, but more had changed than I had expected. So many of my friends and former classmates had been drafted while I was away. There were still plenty of adolescents running around, but the absences were felt in everything we did. Pondering the nature of fate and war and loss, was not how I had wanted to spend Thanksgiving break. Needless to say, nobody felt particularly thankful that year.

The war made my mother anxious. The feeling spread and permeated the house. All she could think about was how her own brother, my uncle Steve, never came back from being stationed in the Pacific. Every time a new round of drafts came out, we waited with bated breath to see if one of my brothers or cousins would be taken from us. He had acted like he wasn’t scared, but I had never seen him more terrified. We had always been honest with each other, and I knew he was trying to hide his anxiety from me. The day I got back for Thanksgiving, he finally broke.

“Jo, I can’t do this. There are so many things I want to do. I just feel helpless. I am watching guys we have known since birth go off to die, and there is nothing I can do for them.” He sobbed.

It killed me to watch him this upset, battling a combination of dread and survivor’s guilt. He didn’t want to go, but he felt like he was he didn’t deserve to go free. I knew it was harder for him. He was still here. I was off at school. He was the one that actually had to wish our childhood friends off to war to possibly never be seen again while I would get the update a month later in a letter.

I felt a guilt of my own too. Our parents didn’t have the money to send both of us to school. We had never talked about it outright, but he constantly encouraged me to leave our hometown for school. He always said the plan was, “you do the work and get the degree and the big-league job and THEN you bring me with you as the personality hire.” It wasn’t that he wasn’t also smart, but he knew that if our parents were in charge of picking who could afford to go to school, they would pick their son. He made the choice for them. It left him open to being drafted. He literally put his life on the line for my education. I thought about it all the time. I hoped that he didn’t regret his choice.

He had become less social, more tense. I told him he reminded me of mother. He almost killed me.

“Whatever happens happens. You need to keep living. You don’t deserve to have your life derailed by the world crashing around you. You can’t help anyone but yourself. You will be okay. You making it through all of this is the most important thing.” I told him.

I still don’t know who I was trying to convince more, him or me. I wanted to believe that nothing would happen to Bobby, my oldest and best friend, again, so I was forcing it into existence.

I went back to school and Bobby just continued to go to work every day, tending to the town gardens with Janice. They had become close. They had somehow managed to not date yet, which had always seemed to be the inevitable conclusion to Bobby’s female friendships. I vaguely knew of Janice from high school. She had been the captain of some sports team. We hadn’t talked much. She had convinced Bobby to get out more and join a baseball team. She seemed good for him. I was happy he had someone there.

He brought me with him one day, while I was in town for break. He showed me his favorite plants and how they were taking care of them through the winter.

He also introduced me to Janice, “This is my twin sister, Josephine. I don’t know if y’all remember each other from high school.”

“Yeah. Jo, you wrote for the paper, right?” Her voice was deep but sweet.

I was immediately engulfed in embarrassment. Nobody ever read the newspaper, so I just wrote whatever I wanted. The idea of somebody remembering for that horrified me.

We made small talk for a bit. I eventually babbling about random plant facts. Unfortunately, I know very few actual plant facts.

“Did y’all know that people would use flowers to send coded messages in the Victoria era?” Botany was not my strong suit, but I had an unnecessary amount of historical trivia.

“That was in a novel I am reading. I didn’t think it was real.”

I went through the garden and pointing out all the meanings that I knew. She played along, asking what specific flowers meant and trying to create a coherent message out of a bouquet. Bobby watched. His only contribution was to occasionally tease us for being geeks.

Watching the news during that time felt like a sick joke. Journalists debating whether or not the possible death of my friends and neighbors was worth it for American foreign interests. I

had joined some student protests at school and wrote about the war for the school paper. I met a lot of great people. I did all I could to feel like I could make some small change, maybe get my brother and all the stupid, young, innocent boys like him just a bit more out of danger.

I got a reputation on campus as a bit of a liberal loudmouth, which looking back was kind of deserved. There was a lot of crossover between anti-war groups and other justices movements on campus and in the community. My world expanded through that work. I had never realized how alien I felt in Tennessee until I met people that just instinctively got it. It felt like I could take my first full breath in years.

Sometimes I would accidentally slip up in a way that made my east Tennessee upbringing very apparent, whether it was using the phrase “War Between the States” or asking a lesbian “But like how does it even work with like two girls?” Her response of “Want me to show you?” left me confusingly flustered but did the job of shutting me up.

I did not look forward to going home for the summer. The only thing I was looking forward to was seeing Dick and my family. I knew Bobby wouldn’t be home most of the time, as he had taken a second job as a youth baseball coach in the county over.

I spent most of the summer in an odd somber mental hole. Dick, and I would sit in the park and talk about the meaning of life or sit in his basement and listen to music without saying a word. We played David Bowie as loud as we could without his parents hearing. They would have flipped out. They were convinced that satanic messages were hidden is basically any pop or rock song. We spent a lot of the summer high, a new venture for both of us. It was probably the only way we would have made it through the summer sane.

We compared notes from the year. He told me about his year at art school, and I shared about the school paper, the women’s group I joined, and the disco they dragged me to that I actually really liked. There was an unspoken acknowledgement between us that we had had both grown in similar but hard to verbalize ways over the last year

It was late June when the crash happened.

Bobby had been driving home from coaching.

He got hit by some drunk 19-year-old.

He spent several days in the hospital. All the worry of the past year was nothing in comparison to the palpable stress that permeated the house during that time. When he came home from the hospital, I had thought that both him and the rest of the family would bounce back. That was not the case. Janice had come over a few times to visit him. Her presence was soft and quiet. Her visits helped to calm all of us.

Bobby was different. He didn’t want to talk much anymore, but he didn’t want to be alone either. He would wake up screaming. Nobody acknowledged it. We all knew that Bobby needed to be taken care of, and that was simply the new unspoken understanding of our family.

The reality of a young death had been in his face, but that was for the men that were sent off to war. I don’t think that it had hit him yet that a young death could reach him even here at home. That was the best explanation for his transformation that I had at the time. Looking back, Bobby was probably dealing with a depressive episode. I didn’t have the knowledge though at the time to help him.

He wanted to go back to the gardens, so I went with him. I sat with them as he and Janice quietly tended to flowerbeds and bushes. Slowly, Bobby started to pick up some of his old habits, his jokes and his charm. He also began to confide in me and Janice about how he was doing.

I learned about Janice too. Her older brother had been drafted in one of the early rounds. They hadn’t heard from him in years but had never gotten an official word about his death. She wanted to be a research biologist. Her parents were from Kiev but had moved to Tennessee to work at the Oak Ridge Nuclear facilities after the war. She spoke Russian. She would occasionally try to teach us bit and phrases. We would poke fun of her when her thick southern accent would poke through in the harsh Slavic words.

“I want to help people.” She said in her soft, country voice. “There is still so much we don’t know about the world. Science should be used for good and for beauty.” She had such a hope in her voice as she talked her goals. She would always tell us her version of the story of how Mendel discovered the concept of genetics. I had heard her tell it probably thirty time by the end of the summer. She somehow incorporated love, betrayal, and murder. It made it much more compelling but didn’t quite match how I remembered it from school.

I wasn’t much help to them in the garden, but I pitched in with my pep and gumption. The gardens were peaceful. It wasn’t quite the same feeling as going to the lake in years past, but it too felt like a location out of time. It was insulated from the outside world. We could be vulnerable without it crushing us. Nothing was real, and there was no problem too overwhelming that we couldn’t talk about it.

Dick began to join us on occasion, and then he too was pulled into the gravity of the garden. Janice felt like a natural addition to group. I felt peaceful for the ages. Just as things finally felt right though, the summer came to an end. I didn’t want to leave the safe little world of the gardens for the world of university and war and politics and reality. I also didn’t know how I could possibly leave Bobby again.

“I will never forgive you if you give up on becoming a ‘real person’ because of me. You gotta finish your leap, Jo. And you sure as hell aren’t gonna blame me for you coming home. The real world needs you.” Bobby was not about to let himself impact my life plans.

Dick and I went back to university. Bobby and Janice stayed in town. Bobby yet again took up a second job, this time in a walking distance at a restaurant in town. Janice went back to classes at our local college. We all kept in touch over the year and met up during Christmas, but majors snowstorms and family trips made it hard for any real time together.

My second summer home from college, the four of us met up in one of the gardens to give a summary and debrief of the school year. We called and wrote to each other, but there is only so much you can say on the phone. Janice and I had taken up including pressed flowers messages in our letters. It added a level of competition and mystery. When she failed a chemistry exam, I sent her a pink Petunia “do not despair.” When I complained to her at lack of romantic prospects, she sent me sarcastic condolences and a neatly pressed clipping of Bachelor's Button “hope in celibacy.”

Close female friendships were new territory to me. It had always just been Dick and Bobby, lovely souls but not quite feminine presences in my life. My friends made fun of me that I anticipated her letter like they were coming from a lover on the front lines. A few had made bets about whether “Janice” was a cover for a secret boyfriend. I didn’t know how to explain that it was just nice to have a female friend that shared interests and the context of our hometown. Her and Bobby came to visit me over fall break which at least convinced everyone that she was a real person. Seeing them intersect with the world I had made at school felt so odd. I took them to the disco and all the spots that I hung out at around the city. I got a kick out of watching Bobby very awkwardly interact with a drag queen at a bar that I brought them to with my friends. Bobby tried his best, but Janice was fully bought in. After that, Janice and I became extremely close.

I had been so caught up in academics and organizing anti-war and women’s rights events that I had relatively few social or life updates to share. I had tried to go on a couple of dates, but none of the guys my roommates set me up with were of any interest to me, no matter how hard I tried. They promised I would click with a guy eventually, but I needed to be less picky.

“Basically, nothing of interest has happened to me, and I may be unlovable.” I told the group as my life update, ready to get off the subject of my failure of a love life.

“Same here,” Dick said in a wildly unconvincing manner.

“I know you are lying, Richard.” Bobby used Dick’s proper name and his most authoritative voice. I knew from experience that with enough coaxing we could get the information out of him.

“If I am being honest, I don’t know if y’all can handle a proper update.” His tone had shifted. He was being serious. Neither of us ever did anything interesting. Despite my gut instinct being worried, my interest was piqued. I had to know what happened now.

“Richard Alexander Klonowski, tell me right now. You do not get to be mysterious after I poured my heart out to you.” I complained.

Janice shot me a look. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Dick.”

Bobby backed Janice up, “Yeah. Unless the update is that you committed arson, I think that I can safely say that we could handle it. Take your time though. We got all summer, buddy.”

We gave Dick an out and moved on to Janice’s year. She also had a relatively uneventful year when it came to romance. She had joined her school’s newly founded women’s softball team. Her courses were going well. Her parents were on her about trying to get out more.

We spoke for a bit more. Bobby had bought a car and was looking to go to a trade school. He claimed this put him the closest to becoming a “real person.” We tried to chat light-heartedly after Dick’s mysterious debrief, but the mood had changed. I walked home with Janice to theorize about Dick. I did not want to make him uncomfortable, but I was intrigued by the mystery. My gut instinct was that he had gotten himself involved in the mafia. On the other hand, that was almost always my first guess. Janice had her own theory.

She had noticed certain changes to his mannerisms. She was more observant than I despite my analytical nature. Dick had a certain timidness to him now, something I had also noticed that night. I couldn’t stop myself from replaying the conversation in my mind, the way his eyes glazed over just a little bit, and the small croak in his voice as he began to speak but seemed to lose his words as soon as he opened his mouth. On the other hand, he seemed more relaxed. Dick was a historically deeply anxious and stressed person, but he walked now with a lightness I had never seen from him. Something had definitely happened at school to make happier but more guarded.

“Detective Jo, I think we are missing the obvious. Could it possibly be a potential love interest?” Janice proposed in her best attempt at a noir investigator impression.

“But why wouldn't he want to tell us, Officer Janice?” I wondered, playing into the bit.

“That is just the mystery we need to uncover.”

We made it our mission to unpack the case.

I practically corned him the next evening as I “conveniently” ended up on the same evening stroll that he would take to clear his head.

“Funny seeing you here.” Dick mocked.

“Such a coincidence!” I gleamed in my most convincing voice, try to sound casual and uninterested.

“But seriously Jo, what do you want?”

“Okay, full disclosure, I may have known that you would be here, and come to chat with you.”

“A truly shocking confession,” Dick teased.

“I just want to know about your big update so badly, butyoudon'thavetotellmeifyou dontwanttto” I said anxiously, my words running together.

Dick inhaled a shaky breath.

“Okay, but we have to go somewhere more private.”

We walked to the garden. Nobody would be here at this hour, not even Bobby and Janice. He sat me down. The somber nature of our silent walk created a pit in my stomach. I felt like I was about to open a can of worms that I might not be able to close.

“I met someone. On my first day of classes I was so nervous I nearly threw up. I contemplated skipping my first class the night before. I just couldn’t quiet my mind. I was thinking about you, and Bobby, and how everything had changed. I blinked and my childhood was gone before my eyes. There would be no more goofing off together in the ungodly humid summers. You and Bobby were gone, and I was alone, and I didn’t really know who I was without our collective unit. After sleeping a solid three hours, I was too tired to debate with myself and just ended up going to class. I arrived just as class started of course and was able to snag the last empty seat in the huge lecture hall. That's when I saw Alex sitting next to me. I looked up and was met with the most beautiful green eyes and the sweetest smile. We got along instantly. Alex reminded me of that feeling of carefree, easy peacefulness, and I couldn’t bear to lose that. I guess the feeling was mutual, because we started dating a few weeks into the school year.” His eyes lit up as he told me the story. The timidness from the night before vanished as he went on about Alex and their exploits together.

“I’m so happy for you Dick, she sounds amazing!” I was so happy for him. I could tell that he was still holding something back.

“Erm, yeah Jo, about that…..”

I had never seen Dick so nervous. He was usually so bullheaded and straight forward. He rarely thought about consequences, let alone stressed about them.

“Richard, you know you can tell me anything.” In that moment, he genuinely could have told me that he killed a man, and I would have supported him.

“Alex is not a girl.”

A lot of things clicked in that moment. Nineteen years of signs and late-night conversations all suddenly made more sense. I had expected the worst. I had expected secret pregnancy and elopement.

After that brief moment of realization and relief the weight of what he had just told me sunk in fully. Dick’s parents were some of the most religious people I had ever met. The fact that Dick was not locked away at some Christian school in rural Tennessee was only a testament to his academics and will power.

“Please know that I am always here for you.” It was the only thing I could think to say in that moment.

“I was going to tell y’all. I just… I just chickened out at the last minute.” He admitted.

I reassured him that who and when he told people was up to him. I would never share that without his blessing, not even to Bobby or Janice. I had a lot of homosexual friends through the paper and organizing at school, and they had to deal with a lot of bullshit for it. It would be especially bad in our small and pretty conservative town. I did not wish that for Dick. He deserved respect and privacy, and if word got out, our town would turn it into the gossip of the century.

We did not go back to the garden for a bit. Dick was making his rounds trying to find the right time to personally share about his boyfriend with the others. During that time, my mind began to unpack and scrutinize years of friendship. How had I missed this about him? Despite our personality differences we had always been so alike. It had always been Bobby and Jo and Jo and Dick. Dick and Bobby were close, but it just was not same. Dick and I faced the same social ostracization and troubles with romance. That line of thinking led me toward a second level of spiraling. Why were Dick and I so alike? I started going back over every friendship and romantic interaction I had ever had. I had never been boy crazy, but I liked men, right? I started searching for examples, and it began to feel like grasping for straws. I realized that I had never particularly felt a romantic connection with a guy. I had looked for male validation. I had tried to get myself into romantic situations for the sake of something interesting happening. None of that had ever actually involved me having feelings for a man though.

I had never actually thought about this before. I had always just casually assumed I just had not met the right guy yet. Had I ever even had feelings for someone? Was I capable of love? I was about to fall into yet another spiral when an almost intrusive thought came from a back corner of my mind.

Janice.

I don’t know where it had come from. All of a sudden, though it made sense. The past year a good chunk of my thoughts had been spent on impressing her in our letters. I wanted her to think I was smart and charming. Every word she wrote I read with a fervor. I had attributed this to people pleasing, slight narcissism, and wanting more friends from home. I thought about the way that I got nervous around her and how I couldn’t help but stare sometimes. Growing up, I had very few female friends, so I had just assumed having girl friends was just like that. Once I realized this, I could stop thinking about it.

The next time we were all scheduled to hang out again, Bobby and I walked together. I knew that Dick had spoken to him. We hadn’t talked about it though. It was uncharacteristic for us, but I was too afraid to hear his thoughts after my self reflection.

“You uhh… talk to Dick at all recently?” He asked me tentatively.

“Yeah.”

“I am glad he got it off his chest. Nobody should feel like they have to hide who they are.” He gave me an inquisitive look, like he was trying to gauge my response.

I felt a wave of relief. I should have known that Bobby would be accepting. He wasn’t a judgmental guy. My anxiety had just gotten the better of me.

“Absolutely. He is still the same person he always has been. That hasn’t changed.” I told him.

When we got to the garden it was as if nothing was different. We didn’t broach the topic much, besides teasing Dick about introducing us to Alex. It was normal. It was nice.

As the evening ended, I found myself walking around the neighborhood with Janice. It was a warm summer evening. Crickets were buzzing. I was sleepy in the giggly way that makes you think everything is funny. It was one of those moments that you memorize in your brain to save for later.

“Janice?”

“Yeah, Jo?”

“Would you mind helping me plant some Chrysanthemum in the garden some time? Just the two of us?”

“I love you.”

A beat of silence.

“I would do anything for you, Jo. Maybe Garden Daisies instead.”

“I share your feelings.”

Another beat.

My heart was pounding.

I don’t know what possessed me, but my hand slowly drifted to hers.

She took it. Tightly.

I did not exactly know what this moment meant, but I could feel that it changed something. I felt different. We were different. I felt like I was maybe a step closer to being a real person.

#short story #creative writing #fiction #vietnam war #1970s #gay #wlw #lesbian #gay fiction #queer #historical fiction

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brain-rot-queen · 2 years ago

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Days That Changed Me

Monday was a crew-cut guy, in a nice suit. He was the kind of person to wear a fancy watch that never fit his wrist correctly despite the amount of money he spent on it. It could always use a link or two to be taken out of it, but that would require help that he would never ask for. He got up every morning and went to his nine-to-five corporate office job that was a couple of positions above cubicle. He, of course, climbed his way up from an entry-level position job, so he had an ego about him, thinking he was all kinds of hot shit, but he also understood the value of work. I never knew exactly what he did, but I knew it involved more math than my brain is capable of. He worked for the nice things he had or at least told me he did. I believed him. He had a loft apartment in some mediocre building in the city. He had a walk-in closet to display his variety of suits, cascading in enough colors to ensure he could go an entire month without needing to repeat a suit combination. I saw it once when I stayed over one night. He didn’t show it off. That part was just for him.

The closet fed into an almost empty bathroom, which fed into an almost even emptier bedroom. It was a bit of a bachelor pad but clean and always smelled good. Monday had an uncomfortable, modern-looking couch in the middle of his living room and a nice, big flat-screen TV that he would watch his college football games on in the fall. It never felt truly lived in, coming off as a procured piece of art. He never seemed comfortable in his own home. I wanted him to be happy. I could never tell if he was.

In the spring, he opened his balcony doors up to let the sunlight in and the occasional breeze through to soften the darker features of his apartment. He would sit on the balcony and read for hours. In the silence, one hand holding a book, the other on my leg, that was one of the few times when I felt like I truly reached him.

He had buddies over for poker night once a week. He invited me a couple of times. There was a competitive air about it that went beyond the game. A couple days before, he would meet those friends out at the bar, they always go to, for a drink or two, attempting to hit on women but usually failing. I didn’t mind all that much. It was just another element of the competitive performance art that was Monday. He was never the best judge of character when it comes to his friends. That’s probably the reason They would be rowdy and rude, always shouting crass things at passersby and leaving shitty tips for their servers. Monday always found himself checking their behavior in his head, but never speaking on it. He would always stay after them to leave a sizable tip and an apology for the poor server out of guilt.

“Monday…”

“I am sorry about them. College buddies. They’re good guys, just dickheads.”

There was no conviction in his voice. At that point, he knew it was just a line he gave.

It was good with Monday. It was calm. No matter how much we wanted it, it was never going to work though. Monday was unknowable. That’s how he wanted it. We slowly faded.

I checked his social media recently. Curiosity, I guess.

He married a woman from work. She was in sales but a position lower than him of course. I don’t think that his internal competitive drive would have let him fall for someone above him. They seem happy. They have a kid, a daughter. He looks softer. He has posts about his mental health. I have to stop myself from wondering what had changed. Did he change and then meet her or did he change for her. Could he have changed for me? I close my computer.

When I think of Tuesday, I think of her sunny yellow dress with some sort of flowers or fruit on it. She wears earrings that remind me of the ones my third-grade teacher wore, inanimate objects that looked like they are made of clay. Her husband bikes a lot. He has curly hair and a bit of a beard. In college, when she detailed her perfect man, she described him, Joseph, to a T.

They go out on the weekends to farmers markets to pick up handmade soap and cat treats for their kitten and the obese old cat, Jefferey, she has had since we lived together in undergrad. I miss Jefferey wondering into my lap on a classic, peaceful hungover weekend with Tuesday. He is old now, with some health issues that make him lazily lounge in the sun that shines through Tuesday’s window seat in her front room. The room is lined with bookshelves her husband made, stacked high with any book she has ever touched.

In the summertime, she sits in the window with her fat cat and reads whatever made her happy, or sad, or whatever escape she needs that day. Sometimes she texts me to come over and join her. Those are my favorite days of the summer. Occasionally the kitten, her husband brought home randomly, curls up on her lap and purr quietly to break the silence. Tuesday will read and read until her husband comes home from the longest bike ride in the world, and they cook dinner together in their kitchen. Music would be playing in the background, as they cook whatever cuisine they decided to try out that night, stirring sauces, sautéing vegetables. They dance around their little island trying not to burn their elbows on the Cuisinart kitchen set they got as a wedding present. It’s so sweet it hurts. It feels almost comical to observe their domestic bliss, when I remember watching them meet in a study group our sophomore year of college.

She painted her cabinets a bright lime green color that was prettiest as the sun set between her French doors. Tuesday loves the humidity of warm rain and crisp air of autumn chill, so her doors are always open, leading out to her backyard that had pavers, a fire pit, and fairy lights strung between the house and her picket fence. She hosts anytime she has the chance, loving the company she has surrounded herself with. Tuesday is who I want to be when I grow up, even though we are the same age.

As much as Tuesday would love to read and escape from reality, engulfing herself in whatever fictional world some author cooked up, she enjoys the moments that keep her in reality as well. Barbeques with family, trying new drink recipes with a couple friends, roasting marshmallows with her husband are where she was happiest.

"You will find someone.” She would tell me.

“I am not sure I will ever get there, Tuesday.”

“You never wanted this. You need to find your version of this.” She gave me hope.

Wednesday was a childhood babysitter. We didn’t have much to talk about, since I was of the ripe age of seven, so instead we found creative ways to dunk Oreos in milk. I would like to point out that I personally have never enjoyed milk, but an Oreo is milk’s favorite cookie. So, as Oreo scholars we had to dunk them in milk for science. It would be a nice, tall glass of milk, and as many Oreos we could eat. There was a crafted method for dunking the cookie into your glass of milk. Diversion from the perfect dunk, and it would not come out as the perfect ratio of milk to Oreo, instead half the cookie tragically breaking and falling into the tall glass. We obviously considered the trick in which you stick the fork through the Oreo and boom you have an instant Oreo dunker contraption. While yes that is completely possible, Wednesday and I considered this cheating.

There were high stakes. You could lose your cookie in one of those stupidly tall glasses that make any drink look desirable. They were not actually ideal cookie dunking glasses, but had not yet refined aesthetics versus practicality in Oreo dunking at the point. My parents had gotten he glasses on their wedding.

The glasses had been left to collect dust, until Wednesday and I took up our research.

I was unaware of the context around our Oreo dunking.

I hadn’t known that my parents had hired Wednesday because my grandmother was too sick to take care of me after school and my parents both had to work. I hadn’t noticed double stuffed Oreos turned to regular Oreos because my parents were trying to save money. I didn’t even pick up on Wednesday urging me to use less Oreos because I was “wasting test subjects,” another cost cutting measure. Sometimes I miss the naïve ignorance of my childhood. The ability to push the struggles of the real world away with snacks and pretend science. Instead, I sit at a kitchen counter surrounded by bills and budgets of my own while eating a sleeve of Oreo to sooth the pain.

Thursday started as a friend from grad school. We would grab happy hour appetizers and two-dollar pints with after finishing up our work for the day. He would drag me the bar of a pub or sports bar or tavern and order a round of whatever was going the cheapest that night and the BOGO basket of wings, buffalo sauce with the blue cheese on the side. I obviously had to get my own basket of BOGO wings, but only because it was such a good deal that we got the most out of it if we ordered two together. He was the kind of guy that you can have a good conversation with, but that conversation comes with another round. In those days, he was an enabler to all ends, pushing me to grab one more pint, one more glass of cheap beer that I could no longer stand the taste of. He always seemed to know the waitress at the bar, no matter which one we found ourselves at. He would flirt slightly to get just a little top off the couple of sips he took of his last round. They would always agree because he was charismatic and had a nice smile but knew they would never go home with him.

Thursday always rolled up the sleeves of his button shirt to rest at his forearms, signaling that he was off the clock. He looked good in blues, light or dark, but he could also pull off greens and browns. His shoes matched his belt, but don’t be fooled as he only had one other pair of shoes and one other belt. It was the kind of low effort class that came from an upper middle class, New England private school upbringing.

He had a cute, homie, smaller apartment, sweet yet stupid roommates, and the comfiest couches ever despite it being old and probably found on the side of the road. He would have avoided frat houses in undergrad if he hadn’t been such a standup guy and was invited to seemingly every party despite never pledging.

After a couple of rounds in the bar at his usual stool, his voice only got louder and louder, but no one ever seemed to mind because it felt like every person was craning their neck to understand what he was talking about. He always cashed out at the bar before walking outside to light a cigarette, his slightly longer hair would fall across his face while he bent his neck down to light up. We would share a look. I was never sure in those moments what it meant or what I was feeling. Thursday would take a puff and blow it out into the street and ask if me if I wanted to grab one more drink.

“I know you got it in you, shortstop.” He always called me that.

“I have class tomorrow…” I knew there was no conviction behind my voice.

“So… Barney’s?” It always ended at Barney’s.

“You’re buying.” It was settled.

I would end going to class hung over. He always knows how to look at me to get me to do whatever. Thursday would throw me a look and convince me that one more cheap drink would be the best idea in the world. He would drive me home and hold my hair back if it came to that. We would tell each other our fears and hopes.

“I hope you know how much I need you.” He was sappier than he appeared.

“Anytime. Always.” And I meant it.

We are busier now, with jobs and pets and all the responsibilities of adult life. It isn’t quite the same. It now requires effort and scheduling, but when we are together it comes as easily as it ever did. Thursday’s presence is still as intoxicating as it ever was. In the back of my mind, I can’t discard the idea that we will someday be more than this.

The was a specific group of college students on my floor when I was an RA. I dubbed them collectively “Friday.” Friday never knew when to leave the function. They were always the last ones coming in after a night out. The girls would be clad in their short clothes and barely there tops drinking something like UV Blue or Deep Eddy’s. The guys would be clad in their jerseys and backwards hats drinking Colt 45’s or Natural Light Naturdays and trying not to puke it up on their Nike Blazers later in the night. They were always the ones that made their exploits just obvious enough that I had to write them up. They met on our dorm floor, some of them left their door open during welcome week to invite new friends in, which is exactly what happened.

They would played water pong in off brand solo cups, playing their “College Pre-Game PlayLits” some-what softly so they could still hear the ping pong ball bounce against the linoleum. Sometimes they would spend their evenings in the girl’s dorm that was covered in cozy throw blankets and emanating with the smell of baked goods, a “Saturdays are for the Girls” flag, and a couple illegal-dorm candles. Sometimes they would go to the boy’s room, that shared an interesting stench of all their cologne and musk mixed together with a hint of weed just faint enough for plausible deniability. They had a beer box wall lining up the back of their door, which I eventually just decided to ignore, and had a rug that one of their moms insisted they needed. No matter where they decided to pregame, they would always meet for the showings of the Bachelor in the dorm floor lounge, bringing some kind of dessert and talking about who was getting a rose that night. The routine was soothing even for me as an outsider, hearing the show, muffled through the thin dorm walls.

The Fridays moved in a pack, always making sure everyone wanted to leave and thus creating this idea that they never really had to leave until someone kicked them out. In a way I admired that. It kept them safe and ultimately that is what I cared about. They would hold one another’s hair back in the bathroom, always have a pong partner, and when it got nice around the springtime, they would be found at the campus hotspot sitting on a blanket together enjoying the people watching and some vodka from a water bottle, which I had lost the energy to care about.

“Please be safe tonight, guys.” I told the group as they were leaving one night. I knew they weren’t gonna listen to me, but it made me feel better to say it.

“Don’t worry! I have backup!” The group of them laughed, but it was true.

Saturday was my freshman roommate. She was an enigma wrapped in chaos. I have never once seen her room clean enough to walk through the door. She was, however, always cleaning the kitchen. Only to leave cabinets open, beans soaking in water on the stove, and the scissors always missing. She loved seeds, like enough to purchase a couple bags of seeds weekly and I’m not even sure seeds come in bags, like I think she put the seeds in special bags she had.

She had the most amazing taste in style, always knowing how to accessorize, and how to wear her hair. She had these amazing curls that could not be tamed, even on days she would complain of bad hair it looked like it belonged in a professional haircare commercial. Her clothes were always something to be envied and she was generous with them. They were a mix of old thrifted finds and vintage couture plus whatever was in style recently. She could combine the two into the most impressive outfit that would turn heads.

Essentially there was not a thing this girl could not do, and I wish I was exaggerating when I say this. While being able to enjoy a night in, she was also able to light up every party she ever walked into. She knew how to dance in a crowded room, to drink anyone under the table literally, and to play a mean game of Monopoly, which she cheated at every time without fail. There was never a moment in which you knew what Saturday was up to or what her definitive plans were but ultimately that was part of her charm. She was with me for so many of my firsts, first drink, first kiss, first failed midterm. I would not have made it through that time without her.

She was both, she was all, she was Saturday. And like a weekend, as soon as she entered my life, she was gone. She never came back from summer break. There was no special goodbye or even a warning. That didn’t change any of the memories or bonds that we had forged over freshman year. Not everyone is permanent in our lives. Saturday was never meant to be in my life forever. That was hard to learn at first. Eventually though you learn to enjoy the memories and appreciate the time you had together. I still thank Saturday for that lesson.

Sunday always showed up to Thanksgiving fashionably late. The last of my uncles without a wife or kids, Sunday was merely expected to bring himself. He worked as some foreman or something. I still couldn’t tell you what that means, and this point I am too afraid to ask. Despite his tardiness, he could be found usually passed out on some armchair before dessert.

As a kid, I looked up to Sunday. I thought he was living the high life. He was always talking and hanging out with the family, making jokes with a beer in hand. Sundays would say hello to all the nieces and nephews and ask them things about their lives that would let you know he keeps tabs us and he wasn’t as distant as he appeared.

He loves the football games, no matter who is playing who, as long as he gets to yell and celebrate with his family. He would bring a Costco ready to bake mac and cheese as his dish, which was fine because it was one less dish for grandma to make. It was also delicious. Plus, nobody would never really want Sunday to be in charge of something super important like the turkey because he wanted to deep fry one year, and he almost caused a forest fire.

He always had good jokes, never bring up politics, and keep everyone fairly calm with comedic relief and lighthearted anecdotes about how they did Thanksgiving growing up. When you would sit around the table with Sunday and say grace, he was respectful, but he believed this holiday was just an excuse for grocery stores to sell more turkey. He would tuck in, place his napkin in the fold of his shirt collar and occasionally talk with his mouth full. He would serve himself seconds or maybe thirds, raving about how delicious everything was and joking that the mac and cheese was definitely his favorite. He was the first one to say dessert should be served on the couch and around the TV so they could finish the game. The only issue would be that the second his butt hit the brown suede of grandpa’s recliner, he would immediately pass out from all the gravy and the mashed potatoes he managed to put down.

Everyone would only have nice but mediocre things to say about Sunday as he snored from his spot. He was a safe space, lazy but still got it done. He was not the black sheep of the family but not the star either. He lived his life for himself and minded his business. Later in my life, I would find myself slipping into that role within my own generation of the family. When I spent time thinking about how Sunday had made us feel and what he brought with him though, I found it an honor to take the mantle. Sunday was stable and safe. He was kind and hardworking. It was admirable to be Sunday.

(this was a project for my creative writing class)

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