Month: January 2021

Runner’s Rage

Posted on by Johnny Roque

Dashing through the streets in a fit of rage. My 16 year old body pushed itself in anger using the thighs that easily squats four times my weight. I zig zag through a neighborhood of cheap used car lots, cheap used women, and even cheaper used men dressed like women. At this time all of night all the wonders of the street that nobody ever needs to wonder about start to squirm out of the shadows. Most days I might shake in my Asics driving though here, but not tonight. Tonight I run in anticipation to find someone wanting to step in front of a 155 pound kid that covers a mile in 6 minutes. I still hear my girlfriend in the back of my ear hissing her reasons to leave me.

I want her to leave. I want to leave. In the middle of it all I hang up and put on my shoes. In the mirror I catch a blur of red and blue flash. That one moment of pubescent hormonal driven acknowledgement of my own strength puts me in hyper drive.

My feet bounced off of leafs, broken concrete, and puddles. The bottom of my shoes pushed everything around it away, all the rocks, dust, and dog shit dispersed after each stomp. I heard my feet smack the ground like boxing gloves on the heavy bag. My heart pumped fresh blood throughout my veins forcing me to literally cool my steam off.

Once back in my bedroom. I stormed in, not talking to my family about anything. Everything I say to them while like this turns into a fight. None of us mind, we like to fight, I just want to rest now. The steam still rising off my body makes me clean off my mirror a few times. I call my girlfriend and tell her I made it home safe, but we need to break up. The mirror fogs up again. She hangs up in her usual response. Cleaning the mirror again, I see my shoes on my floor. Those little devils keep me sane.

Swap Meet Saturdays

Posted on by Johnny Roque

Showing up to an empty drive-in movie theater in the morning only means one thing, dad dragged me out of bed to shop at the swap meet. Every few Saturdays my foot, shoulder, and head might feel a tapping on it signaling to wake up and jump in the truck. I pushed my eyes open, flopped my limbs through some holes, and shoved my foot into some shoes. This all happened while walking to the truck in the middle of the street. Coffee and a breakfast burrito often found their way in my hands.

I never recall picking them up, but I remember holding them and eating. On the way to the swap meet my dad told me about things he wanted to find or about things he found in the past. Some of the stories overlap, but I never stop him. I like those stories and I know the places to laugh at after each breath. My concentration often splits between his story and finding out the exact contents of my breakfast burrito. Much of the ingredients involved last night’s dinner, but sometimes he threw in a pickle or a jalapeno to throw me off. He knew I found it after the face I made. He told me that he put a jalapeno in there because it made me alert and that it kept me on my toes. My dad kept me on my toes so much I think he wanted me to join the ballet.

Just watching him talk to people made the trip worth it to me. He talked up to people to talk them down. He complimented a guy to the point that once my dad asked to cut a few dollars off the price and the guy still blushed in the cheeks told him to take five dollars more off. I watch in amazement every time.

My dad usually at the end of the day grabs me like a lion pawing his cub. He asks me to think of anything I need and I look at him perplexed. I never needed anything in the first place. I needed sleep, but I am glad I went every time. I received so much more than I needed on those Saturday trips to the swap meet.

Age of Accountability

Posted on by Johnny Roque

Baptizing and kissing famously took place at the summer revival day camp outing my church threw every year. I never experienced either, but this year I wanted that to change. I signed up to allow a grown man to hold me under water so that the lord and all the glory that follows may cleanse my soul.

Walking in through the side entrance of the yard the smell of hot dogs, hamburgers, and chicken floated in the air. I wanted to wait until after the baptizing to eat. I needed this to go right and to avoid any potential stomach trouble that might distort my reverence to the all mighty.  In the born again Christian religion, babies and children must wait until they reach the age of accountability. Last week on my thirteenth birthday my parents told me I reached the age of accountability and that my computer privileges I enjoyed alone no longer exist.

Finally, I stand in line to dedicate my everlasting soul to the alpha and the omega. The line looks long, but luckily Jennifer stood next to me. She sounded irritated all the time, but she looked after her two younger brothers and traded insults that a harsh older sister flung her way at any chance she saw fit. My sister said Jennifer’s uterus starts to cramp up around this time of month. We start talking and I ask her about it and Jennifer sighed heavily. It actually sat above her uterus she told me, her stomach felt bloated. I told her she might find some stomach medicine in the cabinets. She just wanted a belly rub. I jumped at the chance. Her eyes rolled, but I told her I give great belly rubs and my puppy left me a great review. Everyone around us prayed and dunked person after person, but I stood next to Jennifer, rubbing her stomach softly, and we look at each other. Oh, the look of God never appeared so beautiful and clear. I kissed her quick, then a moment later after the next “aman” everyone opened their eyes. The pastor placed his large bear paws on my shoulders. I half forgot the reason I stood in that pool on the shallow end, but while he dunked my head backwards into the water, my hips floated parallel to the water submerging 97% of me under and a solid 3% of my young blood filled confidence pointed directly up like a periscope to adulthood. I emerged to an entire congregation erupting in laughter. My face turned red. The pastor told me the lord give-ith and the lord take-ith, but I need to control-ith. Jennifer looked at me smiling. After that I dried off and never returned, not out of shame or in spite of a

Target Lands On Top

Posted on by Johnny Roque

I really miss my dog. He died a few years ago in a terrible accident involving a squirrel and a truck. One of the truck drivers leaving the local Target swerved after the damn bushy tailed snake fell on her windshield. That windshield stopped so many things that day. It stopped the wind, it stopped a rodent falling right into her lap, and it stopped a small brick that flew straight out of my hand.

That brick grew wings out of the fury that ignited in my newly hollowed out soul. Yes, a brick thrown at a windshield in anger brings a lot of questions, but explaining the death of my dog at the beginning of the events softens the blow of all the lunacy that follows in my answers. It softens the blow like the squirrel softened that brick. That skillfully aimed brick brought the justice I craved.

Immediately the trucker jumped out waving around a six shooter that looked old, but functional. I thought of running, but my old baby laid in the street. Once she saw the work she executed using her truck she tucked away her piece like an old pervert realizing his shame. She looked at me, tears filled both of our eyes. Her hug on that day stopped the spread of the darkness in my empty heart. She told me about the squirrel. I told her I saw the whole thing and that brick landed on the intended target. I apologized over and over, she replied using more apologies. The police showed up, someone called the cops or maybe Target called the cops, but they showed up. No charges or grudges left that parking lot, but my dog went home in the back of a cruiser which followed me home whaling in tears behind a 16 wheeler playing Taps on her horn to remember my dog.

The Company of Screen Writers

Posted on by Johnny Roque

Talking to my boss, who also earned a Screen Writing degree, keeps me focused on my dream. Two screenwriters working together sounds better in the situation that we both actually write to earn money, but nope. I work in the backpack production department and he inherited a company. We both love movies and discuss hypothetical sequels to long dead franchises. Sometimes we exchange screenplays to read one another’s works.

I read over all his screenplays and I see a lot of talent. Screenplay after screenplay I read about beautiful love stories and dangerous adventures that often haunt my dreams in fantasizing about them coming to life on the big screen. He returns mine covered in red ink. I never correct his, I just leave notes and feedback on the last page.

His red corrections always highlight grammar or remark about the breakdown of the world and applying more real life outcomes. I like that he brings it to a lighting that I want to avoid. His real world prospect interferes in my artistic creation.

In the real world he wants to pursue screenwriting fulltime. He might win or he might lose, but he wants to actually make a career in screenwriting. I need to make a career in screenwriting. I need to win. I lose if all else fails and I end up working in this place forever. He owns this place, he never risked his life on his art. In the real world that gamble only works in the movies. That one experience left us both walking different paths.

The safety of not knowing hunger make him unable to actually expressing his characters need to eat. It makes his limited world view highly apparent. I really believe in his talents, but the most talented fish never last out of the water. I need to develop to live out of the water. I need to believe in a world that he never needed to actually exist.

Death Row Jobs

Posted on by Johnny Roque

The first time I killed someone it happened after an outburst of rage. I thought of it, planned it, and executed that person, but it all started in rage. I turned myself in hoping to work out a deal. My lawyer informed me of the deal the judge offered. I either, went to death row or the judge wanted to order the bailiff to shoot me on the spot. I took the death row option, but now looking back at it the bailiff looks pretty good. The judge never told me that death row meant more death.

I thought death row meant sitting on a bunk and waiting to hear my name called to announce my arrival to the heavens. I sat there and heard my name called over and over again. Each time I answered they sent me out to kill someone. This entire death row process just provides the government the killers they need to finish certain jobs.

Not taking the job means nothing. Nobody hates you or wants you dead to teach you a lesson, it just means that you wait in your cell another day. These jobs offer enough benefit though that not taking them seems dumb. Every time I head out a small army of guards follow me. I watch a little Netflix on the way to our destination and once we park I listen to my instructions then walk in to carry out the government’s plan. On our way back we pick up food, stop at a strip club, and sometimes even watch a movie. Once back they toss me into my cell, sometimes literally.

Every day I wait to hear my name called to walk up to those pearly gates and apologize about that first person I killed. In my regard all the other deaths land on the governments shoulders. I feel bad after every one of them, but I always feel bad, death makes it hard to enjoy life, especially when it involves your freedom.

Triggers Lead To Buttons

Posted on by Johnny Roque

I retired years ago. It never feels longer than a few moments. After devoting my life to the safety of my country I look around to see all that lives around me and I know I made the right decisions. Those decisions at the time forced my hand. That moment I signed that paperwork I started a career in the military.

Every boy steps into those heavy military boots the same, but not every man steps out of them the same. At 18, I saw others my age, some older, crying and begging to their god to come pick them up out of this miserable place. Those first few months siphoned out all of the soldiers in those bunkers. They taught us to eat, clean, and shoot like soldiers. At the end of it, everything that created a soldier on paper laid in me, tightly tied together in one pretty military camouflaged package. The paper soldier looks vastly cleaner than the actual soldier.

After that my first trip landed me in the dessert halfway across the world to join other actual soldiers. These soldiers looked rough. The sand in the cracks of their eyes seemed to hang off their lashes like granite. I wanted to ask some of them questions on the things I needed to expect, but those questions received an answer immediately. Once at base, myself and the other new troops found ourselves in a fire fight. The enemy tried to take advantage of all the new soldiers still showing green behind their ears. That siphon worked, everyone that fought, fought like soldiers. In the heat of the battle an Officer told me to move up towards a barricade and provide cover fire. Rocks flew at my face, bullets whizzed around my head, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. On the other side of the barricade I positioned myself to attack. In a split second I aimed at a nose. The entire face blurred out, but that nose stood in my sights. I pulled the trigger sinking that nose into the back of his brain. Then I pulled again and again and again. A fellow soldier pulled me back. Then he started to shoot, then he caught one in his nose. The fire fight lasted about ten minutes. Granite fell off my eye lashes and then I receive more orders.

Eventually I started ordering soldiers. I pulled enough triggers that the military decided I needed to stay away out of the battles. They assigned me a nice job that involved me making phone calls and pushing buttons. So instead of pulling a trigger to end one life at a time, I push a button to end thousands.

In my retirement I never question the decisions I made in my career. Those decisions keep me retired. I pushed enough buttons and pulled enough triggers that I just want to sit back. These old hands push on my cane now, my frail fingers push the buttons on my remote slowly and the only trigger I want to hear now echoes out of the heavens to call me to sit beside my god.

Chuckling To Myself

Posted on by Johnny Roque

At the salon I wait in this old beat up station wagon once again on another Saturday afternoon. Every week, once a week, my wife walks in to “fix” her hair and “clean” her nails. I always chuckle hearing her say those words. She tells me to keep my chuckles to myself. I take her advice, always, after 35 years of marriage, I have never met another soul that regarded my wellbeing over their own. Taking her to the salon every week lets me make some time to spend next to her, like my father said, “making time makes a marriage”.

We gossip all the way there after her quick glance in the mirror to tell me she needs to touch up a bit. That there fires a flare gun to start the laughter. A whiney screech reminds me to keep my chuckles to myself. Another whiney screech reminds me to fix my timing belt, it happens halfway there, but at that point we already covered our kids, the neighbors, and all the weird dogs around the park we just passed. The coffee shop down the street smells like crushed rich heaven all morning and they let me sit there a few hours to wait after dropping this lifetime carpool companion off. She kisses me and tells me the same time every time, but I listen to her to hear her say “remember when you get back I’m going to be the pretty one” and that makes me laugh hard every time. She points and raises her eyebrows, but all the strength in my body fails to hold back that one every time.

Every time I usually arrive a few minutes early. I hate traffic and I want to head home to start my day. I am blown away that my wife stood next to me this long, I work 25 hours a day, but she stays next to me every single hour. I make time to see her and hear about her “fix”, “clean” and transform into the “pretty one”. “Fix”, fix implies something needs fixing and literally she needs zero fixing. She arrived in my life already put together out of the box. “Clean” tickles me to hear, her nails always look clean. Those nails that work hard to keep a family strong never need cleaning, they sustain a gloss of holy purity. I see her walking to the car, “the pretty one”. I wake up to her and she sadly never sees the pretty one that I open my eyes to every morning. The pretty one that even in the darkest of days kept this world pretty to me, the Sunflower I spot that stands out above the rest, the one that makes me chuckle loud and hard at the thought of her referred in any other way less than “pretty”. She steps in to the car, kisses me, and before I say anything she says “keep your chuckles to yourself and I won’t tell your wife what we do.”

Dance Devil Dance

Posted on by Johnny Roque

Beats rise through the smell of sulfur that seeps passed the cracks of the earth. Bass falls to the ground raining out of the heavens drowning the skies in a holy vibration. Music rumbles all around the heavenly skies to the hellish depths forcing both evil and good, death and life, angels and devils to dance.

Music closes gaps of all sorts. It fills empty rooms full of comfort. The power of music distorts reality to all beings. A little rhythmic tapping moves all the spirits around in an excited frenzy. Notes floating upwards command wings covered in feathers to brush against clouds. Feet like goats stomp at the dirt raising the dust in a beautiful dance of horrific smooth moves. In all honesty it looks like a cyclone of power that bridges the three worlds together.

Music pushes together polarities that nature deemed impossible. A wedding needs music in order to complete a holy union, not to please the bride or groom, but to ensure all at the party remember to enjoy themselves. Songs break the embarrassment of puberty in a gym full of new teens. The power of music instantly creates an enjoyable reality to everything.

These notes that float in the air find their way into the plants that touch the core of the earth forcing mother nature to sway her hot center. Life everywhere depends on music, without music reality only exist in stale movement. Music makes movement into dance and everything loves to dance, the angels, the devils, and all in between love to dance.

Sorry Marriage

Posted on by Johnny Roque

I want to stay married. That ring on the table, single, fingerless, and still riddled in the scent of my wife. She left this morning soft spoken, but direct. I heard all the words drop out of her perfect mouth. I noticed her lips shake a little once she pulled the ring off and left it on the dresser.

It still makes no sense to me. Last night we made love, the kind of love that splits the clouds to let the stars gaze down at us. Things certainly felt tougher than usual in the past few weeks, but that seemed normal. Late nights of work, drinking at the bar in the morning, and falling asleep at the movies all felt like warnings. The fights piled up, but a “sorry” fixed it. She gave me sorry after sorry, until after about a million I stopped counting. Counting to infinity seemed pointless. I said sorry to the point of a bleeding dry throat. Every last muscles pressed on my lungs to force out a “sorry” just one more time after a valentine’s date at Applebee’s. I know one thing, these handcuffs deserve a “sorry” at the very least.

She climbed on top last night and pulled out handcuffs. She cuffed herself first and in a suspicious amount of time she finished. She finished faster than it took me to put the handcuffs on her. In a sex rage she clamped the metal to my wrist bones. It hurt and instinctually my arms went to grab her neck, but the handcuffs certainly lived up to their name. She slipped me a blue pill and rode me like a bronco headed to the glue factory.

In the morning I caught her putting on her pants. Those pants gripped her in ways that made me jealous. She told me her reasons to leave, but I missed it over the clanking of the cuffs and the bed post. My screams of “sorry” also drowned out some of her voice, but she left anyway. I still want to stay married, no matter how sorry it sounds, but I like my sorry marriage, without my marriage, my life just turns into one giant sorry.