Three micros
By: Sean Ennis
I’M SORRY I CALLED YOU LONELY
Oh gosh, it was an observation, my friend Shadow’s wife Wanda said, not an insult. We were having some of her ashwagandha tea, in what used to be my attic. She had turned it into her office. There was a whirring desktop, a few laptops, and a white board with an enormous, multicolored flowchart. It felt, at least, like a place where someone could get some real work done. I just sipped.
The tea should relieve stress and anxiety, lower blood sugar and fat, increase muscle, improve sexual function in both men and women, sharpen focus and memory, and support overall heart health. I felt all these effects immediately. Lonely was not how I'd describe myself. I’d say lonesome, by which I mean the existential white noise we’re all trying to listen through. No apology necessary.
I had brought up my interest in Vivian, the Communications Director of the Old Rats motorcycle gang, and Wanda was trying to give me a pep talk. She called me lonely. I am beyond insult, for better or worse. The adaptogens in that tea were getting metabolized with real force. It was almost embarrassing. Was that the voice of my ancestors? No, it was my friend Shadow calling from downstairs. He had been studying for his cosmetology exam and wanted us to quiz him.
But my friend Shadow’s wife Wanda, I have reason to believe, is so lonely she wants a baby. No apology necessary.
EVERYTHING IS ABOUT THIS
I am not the lost descendant of the boy Franklin, who was dragged away from Bramble by a coyote so many decades ago. That’s not the surprise here. Franklin did not survive and thrive as a member of the pack. He did not retain enough of his human reason to eventually return to Bramble. His mysterious background and mannerisms and hygiene were not attractive, and he never found love or a life-partner. He did not want vengeance on the town for abandoning him to the woods and coyotes. He didn’t wince at his own statue. Franklin did not have offspring.
But every man in Bramble has had this fantasy, the idea that there is something wild and heroic in their family tree. Some of the women in Bramble, though, have deep pity for Franklin’s mother. Don’t forget the suicide of Franklin’s father. That might be the worst part of the story.
The surprise is not much of a surprise. A kitten appeared on my apartment’s balcony. At first I thought how clever to climb up, but one look at its stupid face, and, oh, of course, it fell. It didn’t know what was going on. This is how I met Big Head Bruno.
I considered returning to my apartment, and shutting the curtains, embarrassed by the possibility of becoming a widow whose remaining affections were reserved only for cats. Still, the animal seemed to have been born with no advantages. It looked at me as if to say, oh thank God.
Cats are polarizing figures, and also I am allergic. Still, I felt acutely that this animal’s life was in my hands only. I wrapped it in a blanket. We would go on to have many adventures, but this was the night I embarked on my Campaign of Kindness.
NOT A CRISIS, BUT A CONDITION
I feel as if I’m becoming inane and habitual. I’m taking staged photographs of the kitten. I’m upset when someone—my friend Shadow, for instance—cancels plans to go to the TGI Friday’s in the Bramble Mall for Ultimate Long Island iced-teas and lunch. I guess I’m difficult to be around. I’m puttering. Nothing is enough. No one understands.
I went alone. When I had that terrible taste in my mouth, I went shopping in the attached mall, and I took my time. I had been childish. My friend Shadow has my back ultimately. I knew that was right. At 2am, the kitten swatted my nose, and we stood on the balcony together and watched the night he’s forbidden to enter.
Sean Ennis is the author of Hope and Wild Panic (Malarkey Books) and The Hell in Bramble (Bottlecap Press). He lives in Mississippi and more of his work can be found at seanennis.net.