Winter in April

Meet Joe

Joe is young, hip, and unbearably pretentious. He has those shoes you wish you had, but don’t, because you’re not as prone to using your elbows. He lists “jamming” as one of his Facebook interests and has one of those awesome torchy voices that make you think dirty thoughts. Joe isn’t really that good looking, but he does his darnedest to make you forget that when he talks about Nietzsche or “the establishment.”

Maybe he was your old roommate. Maybe he changed his name from Joe because it took away from his scenester cred. Sometimes I wish I was Joe, if only I had better hair, and, uh, a sex change. I mean, he makes things look so damn effortless, like some people are just born quoting Kerouac and eating corn chips, bully for you if you’re not one of them. But then I realized, man, how hard must it be? Those shoes, for one. How much time did he spend rooting through other peoples’ garbage to find that shit? You know, worn, but not too worn, with just that touch of I’m New-York-raised-French and you aren’t…bitch.

Now that I think of it, I feel kind of bad for Joe. Joe has to listen to Peaches, which is cool and all, but almost-naked women telling you to fuck your pain away gets old fast. And Joe will never be exposed to the delicious trash that is Paris Hilton’s music, or Neopets, or The OC. Joe watches movies he secretly can’t stand, or uses slang he doesn’t understand. Joe –

Oh, screw it, I’m just really jealous of those shoes.

Day 1: Somewhere in Ohio

Ohio reminds me of a burnt subterranean plain. Everything is some shade of yellow or brown, and the trees are dried across their branches like dying coral. Mid-west is a good word.

More than anything, it’s like a mother of six at 9pm, making lunches, drying dishes, moving quiet tired steady as Jimmy struggles over his letters and Jane marries Barbie and Ken in her dreams.