KEVIN STANIEC DOT COM

Today, I am a cowboy. Tomorrow, I result to routine as a sad samurai ninja living my life in the shadows. Business as usual.

I could feel spring, running. Hide and seek, past curfew. My elementary school, carnival. Fourth grade, nine years of age. Crush, lust, love. Megan.

I remember walking alone, my hands dug deep in my pockets, staring up at the sky, stars. She came up from behind, placing her hands over my eyes. Guess who? Cinderella, I was Prince Charming. We both had dimples, smiling. We held hands.

Last night I drove alongside the moon listening to country. I found an hour somewhere before morning. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar and fell asleep with my typewriter as the sun began to rise. Rather than lose my thoughts dreaming, I opened my eyes and started writing.

Yawn. Stretch. Sigh.

I am living vicariously through you.

Before buying my car, I took the ride for a test drive. I asked my father to sit behind the wheel because I dont handle well under pressure. My mother sat in the back seat with the saleswomen. During our casual cruise through local city curves I took it upon myself to inspect the vehicle. I first opened the glove box, the door seemed operational and had plenty of space available for gloves, check. I examined the side view mirror, I could see myself, I smiled, check. I proceeded to pull down the protective sun visor designated for the passenger sitting shotgun. JESUS! I shouted. I startle easy. Im jumpy. The saleswomen leaned forward, her hand on my shoulder as she whispered gently. Thats right. She winked. Awkward.

On the opposite side of the windshield shade there was a portrait of Jesus, a glamour shot photographed by some adolescent employee working at the local neglected strip mall. It also looked as though Jesus had been through the washing machine. He was clean but distorted, possibly due to the heat from the dryer.

This was a sign. I bought the car. Jesus still sits behind my visor, waiting, watching.

Last night while packing, I pulled paperbacks from my bookshelf. One story in particular caught my eye, The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. I had read this book during a slow separation with a recent relationship. The cover is creased, ripped, folded and painted with fingerprints. The pages are dog-eared, scribbled over, and every word reminds me of her. I would read paragraphs at a time between moments of broken emotion. I called myself cliche as I kept this novel hidden in the torn back pocket of my dirty worn jeans. The book was dying, but I held it tight together with red rubber bands from the morning newspaper. I only wish I had started at the end. I might have learned something.

The last two sentences of the novel – Dont ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.