in Lewiston- L.W.I. assignment 2, draft 1

I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room, even with the window cracked. That last breath was probably my last, and this is where it ends, in this apartment, this bedroom, this shrine to my childhood my parents have created. There’s the game ball from a no-hitter. A plastic trophy for graduating kindergarten. A framed newspaper article with a picture of me sliding into second, spikes raised thigh-high (I dare you to tag me, I dare you), a prom photo from the only one I didn’t take her to.

The radio is on in the kitchen. I can hear the sound hurtling from the speakers, banging on my door before creeping through the space underneath, swirling around the room until, finally, it spills out the cracked window and lands in the snow three stories below.

“Just hear those sleigh bells jinglin’, ring ting tinglin’ to…”

“Christmas was yesterday!” I want to shout.

I focus on a fan blade and count its revolutions.

Four. Five. Six.

This entire apartment smells like potpourri. Pine. Maybe I should be on medication. Which one is it they give you for stuff like this? Zoloft? Lexapro? I don’t know. Maybe Lexapro. I wonder if everybody’s family stresses them out? Maybe I can go for a walk alone.

I know I shouldn’t. I only see them a few times a year. We’ll spend the day together. Sit in the living room. By the tree. Or go for a ride through western New York. You know… visit. See the sights. Buffalo. Tonowanda. Niagara Falls. Indian Casinos.

I’ll probably have to talk.

“You’re thinking of moving where” she’ll say. “That’s where “they” all live. Don’t touch anything. Try not to breathe.

My mom is still convinced you can get AIDS from drinking out of a water fountain.

Yesterday, in the car, I told them I was going to vote for Obama, just to see their reaction.

“No you’re not!”

“I think so.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

I wasn’t serious. Or maybe I was. I still don’t know. I’ll vote for whoever I think lies the least. That probably means I’ll vote for the best liar.

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

When was that sliding into second picture taken? ’96? ’97? It had to be 96.

After the Obama comment I thought I should push it a little farther. Further? Farther or further?

Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.

“We have a new roommate.”

“That’s good. Is he nice?”

“Yeah. Most nights he sits on the balcony and smokes a joint. He offered me one, but I said ‘no’. I think a group of us might go sky-diving next month for his birthday.”

I could hear my mother gasp and saw her grip tighten around the passenger door arm rest, and watched my father’s shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh. She thinks I hang out with the “wrong sort of people”.

“I hang out with lots of people,” I told her.

The truth is, I’d rather hang out with a pagan that is real than a priest that tells lies. I’ve known both. Why didn’t I say that? I always think of things to say the next day.

Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one.

I shove a foot out from beneath the covers. Why do they keep it so hot in here? Even with the window cracked it’s hot. They probably can’t control it. The whole apartment’s on a timer. The heat is on at night. Off during the day. There are old people that live here. People whose children are older than my parents. People who need the heat to make it through the night.

I am the young, the strong, the youth in bloom.

My phone beeps. I sit up, press my feet into the carpet, and reach towards the nightstand.

It’s a picture message from a friend I’d like to date. She’s blowing me a kiss.

“Can’t wait to see you,” the caption reads.

Should I be getting into this? She’ll probably break my heart, like the last one.

I want to go for a walk. By myself. I want to walk in the snow and get coffee and leave the little cardboard sleeve behind so I can feel the cup radiate through my fake leather glove. I want to see my breath between sips.

But I can’t. I need to “visit”. I need to be a better son.

They’re good parents. They’re great parents. They were there “then”. They dropped off food outside my locked bedroom door “that week”, and picked up the untouched meal they left earlier. They wanted to help, would have done anything to help, would have…

They’re great parents. I need to be a better son. Show them I love them. You never know which Christmas will be the last.

They’re healthy. I think they’re healthy. They’re healthy, right?

I open the bedroom door.