hopper

Jack Donnelly

he was jaundiced in the fingers like a mango. only blue talk made him bare teeth like a hunting hound. his jean jacket had holes at the elbows and his nose would bleed when the weather warmed up and he could sleep on the floor of the greyhound station, head propped on a full duffel. believe in your father when he tells you the value of a dollar, he would sermon at women walking by. we anointed each other with alcoholic face wipes and drank red label, him out the bottle, me, a dunkin donuts cup. we sat paired on the bus, taking turns in the washroom to shoot while the other would say to passengers: me and my brother, the gas station chili got us in a bad way. he nodded off around grand rapids and i kissed him like a lifeguard to make sure he didn’t bite his tongue or nothing. “do you take me for a flower” he said, words slurred like cajun roux. i didn’t, man, but i was afraid. afraid of the cameras in the backs of everyone’s head when our arms started itching and the spider-webbing made it apparent that this was the only place we had. just let me get to charleston and we don’t even have to go anywhere together anymore, bud, i’m straight enough to fly. you’re fresh; you’re green. you’re a babyface compared to me, honest.

Jack Donnelly is a writer who lives in Toronto, Canada. When all of this is said and done, he would like to grab a bite to eat and watch the game, does that sound good? Keep in touch.