
ANCHORAGE by Marc Tweed
That’s the Way of the Boss. That’s the Way of the Boss! Well, fuck.

That’s the Way of the Boss. That’s the Way of the Boss! Well, fuck.

You can tell yourself anything you want about yourself, even if it’s not true yet, and eventually it will be. Maybe.

But the product of this was both gushy and vain. Embarrassing. It was easy to read his real interest, which was carnal, puckered.

On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.

They looked for the seller. They were sometimes lurking near the booth, watching as you handled the crockery. Watching as you flipped through the records.

The girl came out, banana in hand, and the guy from the back followed, loosening his fruit-stained apron, gaping at the climb.

Then there was nothing left to sell. The blood bank told us we needed to give our veins a rest. Should we try pickpocketing, we wondered.

Momma’s bones are broken in so many places that the images look like fins in their oceanic blue-black glow. She’s lost so much lately.

We think about shaving and razors and haircuts and the whole fashion of manipulating the body into approved shapes. We wish our teeth were sharper, stronger.

I listened to their conversation and paced a circle around the fire. Drank my beer. I didn’t know who Dayna was but something sounded heavy and neglected in the other guy’s voice.