Tyler Dempsey

In sixth grade (1997), my friend Tom invited me to church because I was a heathen and poor. (We drifted when he got really into drugs later, but from ages 11 to 14, we were close.) Because my mom worked—Dad vanished in 1990, returned for three days in 2014, and then vanished again—and I lived too far from school to ride the bus, what started as walking with Tom to church together on Wednesdays after school grew into going to Tom’s house weekdays until my mom got off work.  Tom and I practiced kickflips in the driveway for an hour,…

Robbed.  The ski-masked man squeezed my biceps.  “Easy,” I said.  He went, “Get in, fucks,” and nodded toward a black SUV, gun under Eddie’s throat. “Don’t even think about it.”  Eddie called shotgun.  That was yesterday.  Eddie’s my roommate. I’m 34. Too old for a roommate.  I fucked up.  Eddie’s on the couch. You could say “living” there. Old vomit, pink—like brain blended with Monster energy drink—arced but didn’t clear the cushions. My cat’s purring caked in matter needing chemicals to remove.  Ed’s stomach jiggles from a tank top. A hairy muffin hidden for later. Pink on his cheek, he…