Ryan got up after a while

Ryan got up after a while. After a long, long while he grasped for tree bark, a piece of branch, a scatter of earth or the tiniest piece of leaf. Broke the fragile skin in two, threw it mindlessly and looked up. 

Ryan's faith. An american deep stream, the american dream and the upwards glance towards beauty, towards the sun that shines so bright. Those hands thrust deep down pockets and the sigh. 

Nina got the best of him. After I left, after I decided it was for the best. For the best for the best.

So, you ask for clarification. I'm going to give you clarification.

I drove Ryan home that day I found him in the Okanagan. Well - home. Let's not get carried away here yeah? He was too stoned to know how to put his keys into the ignition so I mustered the strength to drive his truck all the way to the Pine Resorts Motel. Plastic green felt lawn on the narrow porch that seemed to go on forever. 

"Joce you know baby.." and he just sighed into his hands. There was all the strength and all of that which cannot be said. Permeating in him, bubbling beneath his cool lake composure. Ryan is a clear lake, Ryan is a crisp song sliding down oak branches. Pooling into silver bullets by the oak's  lifted roots. Pooling into silver bullets. 

I washed him, I gave him a KitKat. He sat up in old sweat pants and his college football hoodie. Bluest eyes. Gleaming. I am tired of writing this story out so I leave some tea on the dresser and leave his life.

The day I decided to leave Ryan was hard. I light one and breathe in slowly. All the paper wings, all the butterfly wings beating gently against the glass casing I swallowed. To display this for my heart to watch. 

I hitch a ride. Some guy from Indianapolis. Chasing down big dreams. A mechanic from a poor family supposedly who wants to become a writer in NYC. Black eyes and black hair with the fairest skin. Okay, let's see how this pans out. I tell him I want to become a writer and he narrows his eyes on the road ahead.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, legs stretched on the dashboard. Getting sleepy. Ryan is probably sleeping it off now.

Joce isn't exactly a slut man. She's just.. you know..figuring it out. 

*

"My folks..well, they're Canadian and my grandparents live near Parry Sound. I'm just visiting some buds from childhood here out west."

"Yeah? That's funny. I'm American but I'm here visiting as well."

"Yeah eh? That's pretty cool. You were alone here? All these fuckfaces hanging out near the forests. Make sure you stay safe"

The idea that a strange man will lecture a girl on safety, on the ability to stay protected and still go out there, tap into this world, live, be careful, but live. Go on girl, live a little but be careful. 

"I pick only black pick-ups. Fuckfaces drive white vans don't they? Is that cliche?" I laugh too loudly and feel self-conscious but keep the resolve.

"Well I tell you what. Don't look at the backseat. It's a massacre scene"

Massacre scene. I've already dealt with a massacre scene. I imagine ketchup smears and french fry casualties anyways. 

Green green green green green green green green green green. Ring ring ring ring ring ring. 

"You write? Why do you write?"

He quickly turns to look at me. Then checks the rearview mirror. Reflex. Beautiful reflex. His hands are beautiful and strong. He's tall. Weakness. Tall and dark and so friendly. 

"I write comic books actually. So much writing goes amiss.."

"In the gutters"

"Exactly"

When did I stop falling for that moment when two adults supposedly fall into this delicious ditch of understanding? I don't nod or prolong the moment. I want nothing from this man. I want no beauty nor do I want to reassure him or inspire something or keep the thread of tiny fire. I want darkness, a closed hole in the earth. A small incision in the riverbank. Where I can crawl from when I'm ready. 

He sits there like a fucking statue. Driving. Beautiful. 

"I know this is weird but let's go somewhere quiet and talk" He means to smear me with himself or chop me up in a million pieces or worse...make me read some of his shitty comics.

He wants himself on me, on my white body somewhere along the 

"You're sweet but I need to make an event tonight. My ex boyfriend's film is featuring in Vancouver. He's in a drugged fucked up stupor back in our hotel room and I need to go on my own now"

"Want some support?"

I do.

"I don't. Thank you though"

"I know a lot about film. Dad was a gaffer for a while in Portland when my parents moved down south"

"I love Maine"

"Best lobster on the coast"

Original.  I imagine the east coast riding it out in the West. The breezy cool west with its cliffs and rocky complexion. 

I look at him long and hard.  Jesus. Why not?

I'm bent over the wall. In this tight black dress that tightens around my waist, around my chest in the most naturally comforting way. Like I'm here, I'm okay I've got this. He's zipping me up and sweeps my hair over one shoulder. Brushes his forehead against my shoulder blade. Foreign. 

There are bright bright lights when we drive up. It's a small event with an improvised red carpet that's a shade too blood-orange. It makes me vomit and think dizzy thoughts. I hold his hand. Michael. That was his name. The writer's. Michael. 

"Michael, I don't think I can.."

"No no, we're here Jocelyn"

Foreign. But I like it.

His big hand holds me up. Around my waist and around my other arm. Totally propped up now. I long to feel overpowered like I'm nothing but sand over which a big warm wave washes in the cold in the sand in the grime in the snow. I want a sleepy movement to erase me into jagged comfort. Crisp cold sheets suffused with sleep. Big bright earrings come into my field of vision. Gold? I should have finished the coke I stashed at my hotel room in Vancouver. Idiot. Nina's friend. Some lanky French bitch from the riviera who's all glam and no shame. Gap between her two front teeth. Empty glance and narrow waist. with wavy brown hair and greenish eyes like a cat's. Mireille. I smile and look at Michael look at her.

He's intrigued, aroused, confused and eager to make the best impression on my behalf. No no, on his behalf surely. Never pick up strangers kids. They'll show you up with better tricks if you're not hacked up by the end of the night. 

Mireille is the kind of woman who swallows. She'll make you believe she's empowered. She does not choose her surroundings. Rather, she is coaxed by circumstance because she believes herself to be above the planning. Surely god smiled on such a lovely figure, on such a lovely creature. Why did I even come? Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan. Bury the fucking hatchet. Yeah yeah ok ok but do I have to bury myself in the process as well? 

"And where is our Ryan? Has he been dragged into a corner to be fawned over?"

I imagine using a meat cleaver on her. Beginning with the small of her back.

Michael's hand on the small of my back. Gentle. Hack. 

Then I'd go for a nice piece near the mid-section. That bit of muscle near a long bone. How good. Crack. No no. Joce what the fuck?

"Ryan is a diva tonight darling! We decided it would be best if he gets a good night's sleep before the interview with Global tomorrow. He wants to go over Nina's symbolic death in the middle. He figures many of the critics will go right for the jugular with that one you know?" I look up at Michael. He tenses his jaw. He is such a cool presence, his warm embrace, his smell and the way he protects me. 

She dissipates with all the rest. All the bullshit. Into the night. Near Nina's perfect blonde hair and curvy figure and lovely shoulders and red smile shiny and glossy and delicious. I'd cut right into her mouth. 

There is more music, more glow, more haze, more of a blur. 

*

I remember this moment. This tiny moment from my childhood all of a sudden. That helps me understand my writing. My dad filmed my mom and I in the garden. We were picking flowers and I remember my fascination with love. The love for my family, the love for truth, the love for my dad. The love for the story. For the story to keep on.