New York, New York.  Before I knew it, I could see the sprawling metropolis from the airplane window spreading across the surface of the earth like a cancer.  But what a beautiful cancer!  The plane descended from the sky like a comet from God and I could feel the anxiety and excitement well up in me and throb in the pit of my stomach.  All of my dreams were finally coming to light, finally coming to fruition right before my eyes.  So many wonderful things were about to happen.  Besides my literary debut at the Barnes & Noble flagship store, I was supposed to meet my editor and her staff for the first time.  Through the entire goddamn publishing process, I never had a chance to meet them face to face.  It's true.  Everything was done over the phone and through snail mail and e-mail, from the initial submission to the first, second, and third revisions to the galley.  In case you didn't know, the galley is the first typeset version of the book that the publisher sends to the author for final revisions and approval.  Anyway, it was a long distance affair from start to finish.  Initially, I often wondered what my editor looked like, if she was attractive or not, a blonde or a brunette, thin or full-figured, lusty or prudish, with a fair or dark complexion (don't you think of these things?).  We spoke for quite some time without really knowing what each other looked like.  Of course, she eventually had the advantage because I had to send a photo of myself for publicity reasons (of course).  But I had the burning desire to find out what she looked like so I did some research and found a picture of her on the Internet.  I mean, it's pretty difficult forming a relationship with someone if you have no idea what they look like.  It's true.  How do you think all these women who write to prisoners actually get the courage to marry one of those bastard convicts?  At least with a photo, you know what you are getting into.  And when I found her picture, I was actually quite surprised to see that she didn't look anything like I had imagined.  From the sound of her voice, I had imagined a tall woman who looked and carried herself like Susan Sarandon, the movie actress.  You know, on the phone she seemed very smart and cunning and manipulative, logical yet emotional, and oddly attractive.  But what I discovered was that my editor looked more like Aretha Franklin.  I'm not kidding.  From the sound of her voice, I had no idea that she was an African-American woman with a hefty frame and not a typical inflection in her voice that would have given her skin tone and heritage away.  It's true.  It's really strange how your mind can mold images for you from clues and tidbits of information it takes in.  I guess you could say that my thoughts of her looking like Susan Sarandon could give some insight into what I think and like about women in general, what, considering that I really like Susan Sarandon's goddamn movies and all.  But it's also interesting how your mind can mislead you like that.  It's very interesting indeed.  Not that it changed how we dealt with each other or anything.  I mean, I'm not a racist or anything.  It was just a tiny revelation.  That's all.

I woke up this morning, just like yesterday morning, with my face in a pile of vomit.  I say a pile because when I sat up, the viscous mound rose four inches from the floor with a silhouette of my nose and face etched in its side.  No liquid whatsoever, just a lumpy mass, a nice likeness of me too.  But the smell, it was the smell of death. And do you know what death smells like?  It smells like regurgitated Jack Daniels.

My cat woke me up from my intoxicated slumber, licking my face after I first heard him nibbling at the pile.  He purred as he licked, sniffing then purring, purring then nibbling, like it was grilled salmon.  My first instinct was to scold him for eating the vomit.  Then I thought, 'what's the difference? At least the floor is clean.'  He finished the entire pile before I could get up and swat him.  He sprinted a short ways, laid down on the linoleum floor, and took a nap.

I told my friend Joel about the pile of vomit over drinks after my shift at the bar.  Of course, he knew why there was a pile of vomit in the first place considering he was with me the night before.  We were drinking whiskey at our usual pace, which is, as much as possible with no pace at all.  And even though he wasn't in my apartment with me when I fell asleep, he could visualize the scenario.  He had been there before as well.

"He ate the whole thing?" Joel asked.

This is a work of fiction, even though names, characters, incidents, and places are similar to real life. There really is a Mia Ryan and there really is a cat named Angel-Boy, though we actually call him Angey-Butt since he doesn't have a tail and all you see is his... well, you get the picture. I'm not aware of any ant named Anthony, though, and any resemblance to any ants with that name, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 S. E. Semegran
Illustrations by Scott

For Mia

Mia Ryan was a precocious little girl, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair, who lived in the heart of Austin in the middle of the big state of Texas. And Angel-Boy was her fearless companion, a little black cat with magic mittens and a stumpy tail. Mia and Angel-Boy liked to throw quaint tea parties, using her mother's fine china to serve the tea and baking miniature cupcakes to feed her guests. And her guest list always included her illustrious court of multi-colored bears. Everyone would sit around Mia's roundtable, wearing bibs and pointy party hats, telling stories and sipping sweet tea.

Angel-Boy, looking a little bewildered, asked Mia, "Can I have my four-morsels cat food instead of cupcakes? I do not like sweets. They make my paws sticky and my fur fall out."

"How rude, Angel-Boy," Mia replied.

The special day had arrived. I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot in the front, and ran in the party store. In an effort to save time, I had a concise list of supplies I needed to purchase: 12 napkins, 12 paper plates, one table cloth, and 12 gift bags, all with a particular Disney character on them. You know, the mouse? I also had to purchase six rubber balloons and one Mylar balloon to be blown up into a festive balloon bouquet, weighted down by a festive balloon bouquet weight. You know, because of last time? You don't know? Well, it's best you didn't know at this point. I was on a mission.

I found all the stuff on my list and waited at the balloon counter for the balloon girl to blow up my daughter's balloon bouquet. You see, it was my daughter's birthday, the most special day of all days of the year. Except for maybe Christmas or Halloween, a kid's birthday is the epitome of everything a kid deems magical: candy, cake, attention, ice cream, gifts, more attention, friends, fun, even more attention. It's the end-all, be-all of a kid's existence. And it was my duty to make sure it all went down in the most magical of ways. Shit, the pressure was getting to me. I only had a couple of hours before go-time. And I had to get all of the mouse-themed party supplies to the other mouse-themed place: Chester E. Cheddar's Pizzeria and Party House. I could only hope they served beer there. At ten o'clock in the morning, I already needed a pint, or three.

It had been over three months since I spoke to my father. We had a terrible argument that turned into a fuck-you match.  Fuck you.  Bastard.  Cocksucker. I was resigned to not speak to him anymore.  It didn't bother me, not at all.  It was better than it was.  Shit.

Three months passed.  Three good months.  I wrote a novel in six weeks within those three months.  I grew closer to my own little family.  I discovered the goodness that came from not caring, not caring about pleasing my folks anymore, and focusing on what was important.  My wife and daughter.  And soon-to-be second daughter.  My future.

So when my sister called me three months later and told me that she was worried about my father, I didn't care.  When she told me that he hadn't returned her calls all day and that it wasn't like him to not return her calls, I still didn't care.  I told her not to worry about it so much.  He'd eventually call her back.  Maybe he was out running errands.  Or something.  I hung up.

Simple question. "If you hate this job so much, why are you still here?"

"I have no fucking idea!  I really don't!  Like it would be better somewhere else, huh?"

Exactly.  Like it would be better somewhere else.  I worked for three different restaurants in the past year and I hated each one with a passion.  Slinging food to the swines that came into those places bred a misanthropic hatred that was dangerous.  Extremely dangerous!  But I discovered quickly that I was one of many who flocked to this type of work.  A haven for what seemed like lost souls or, to put it more plainly, misguided creative types.  I was only one of millions caught in the trap, caught in the cycle of daily cash and short work days, caught in high stress and low self-esteem, engulfed in an environment of service and self-destruction.  I thought that I needed it.  I thought it fueled my creative fire, to say the least.  It did more than that.  My entire world caught fire.

I filled the coffee machine hopper with coffee, poured the water in the reservoir, and turned the machine on. I woke up a little earlier than usual and fought the urge to try to go back to sleep. So I got up, making sure not to wake the kids, and headed downstairs. After five minutes of staring into space, I snapped out of it while the coffee machine wheezed and hissed and dripped the last of its fresh batch into the carafe. I poured myself a cup and walked to the front of the house, peeling open the curtains and standing in the window, sipping my coffee.

I was mulling a list of chores through my head, things to do around the house. Looking at the lawn through the window, I knew I was going to have to bust out some lawn equipment in the next couple of hours and manicure the shaggy grass. I knew I was going to have to cut down some dead bushes in the backyard. I knew I was going to have to do a number of other mundane tasks on my mental chores list. I knew this. But I continued to sip my coffee slowly and didn't move.

My daughters and I walked to the mailbox with hurried optimism. Sophia, my 6-year-old, ran in front, the mailbox key clinking on the keychain she grasped tightly in her little hand. My 8-year-old, Mia, held my hand and smiled at me while we walked.

"Do you think they'll be there, daddy?" Mia asked.

"I have a good feeling they will be."

"I sure hope so, daddy."

"Me too."

Sophia was already around the corner and running full-throttle for the mailbox, her little fists pumping, her little feet scurrying.

"Sophia is excited too, daddy."

"I can see that."

At the mailbox, Sophia inserted the key and opened the door. Plunging her hand in the mailbox, she pulled out a smallish cardboard box and placed it on the ground. She marveled at it like it was a treasure chest, an ancient lockbox filled with valuable things. Mia knelt next to it, placing her ear on top, closing her eyes as she listened.

"Do you think they know where they are?" Mia asked me.

I was really curious by what Jason meant when he said my other car so I put my pants back on and went into the garage to check it out.  When we were kids, Jason's dad had this beat-up 1967 Mustang in the garage and he used to always tell us about how he was going to restore it but he never had the time to do it.  It was rundown like everything else and even though he used to always talk about it, he never did work on it liked he said he wanted to, even when it seemed like he did have the time to do it.  It just sat there in their garage, all beat-up and shit.  But when I stepped in the garage, I discovered that he finally did find the time to do it after all.  For the first time since I had seen it back then, it looked like fucking brand new.  It was the only thing in the house (as far as I could tell) that wasn't rundown.

And his dad did a real job on it too.  It was this bright, pearl turquoise color with white leather seats and shiny chrome everywhere.  I walked around it and looked it over and it didn't have one dent or scratch on it.  It looked like it had just rolled out of the goddamn factory or something.  I mean, it was beautiful.  And I was (for the first time since I walked in Jason's house) really amazed.  It was like a little pristine oasis out there in the garage in the middle of all this crap in the rest of the house.  The driver-side window was down so I popped my head in.  Again, the interior was in immaculate shape.  And just as I had remembered, it had a three on the floor.  The only thing not original (again, as far as I could tell) was the stereo.  A completely modern stereo was installed with new speakers mounted in the doors.  That was OK considering that automobile makers in the sixties didn't appreciate the importance of a high quality sound system in their vehicles.  I could hear the car keys calling to me inside and I knew that I had to drive it.  So I ran back inside.