Free Flatscreen by Adam Wilson

Stone, Spin, Sports Illustrated , some books from high school, CD jewel cases? That’s why my second mind—true mind—was to keep everything, all the evidence I’d been alive, starting in ’86, year Buckner let it through his legs (metaphor for my birth?), surviving: one divorce, one brother, one dead uncle, one terrorist attack (three hundred miles south), one hurricane (farther south), pneumonia at age eight, multiple ear infections, one herpes scare (things were looking okay), bad grades, bad haircuts, bad breath, chapped lips, numb toe syndrome (imaginary), headaches, dick aches, farting, insomnia, etc.
    Had Rolling Stone going back to ’99, my bar mitzvah year, world going Y2Krazy, hoarding cans, wishing themselvesapocalypse. Year Dad stayed out late, while Mom sat waiting at the kitchen table, leg tapping like a metronome, nails scratching invisible words in the formica counter, eyes shifting between the little TV and faux-retro Coca-Cola clock.
    I was a magazine man, liked the feel of paper, its glossy tactility, the space it filled. On one cover, Kurt Cobain is named artist of the decade. A headshot, fierce in detail. All those lines on his face would have been covered by makeup on anyone else, or airbrushed out entirely. But with Kurt they want you to see the pain beneath the surface. The photo must document the authenticity of his angst. We’re meant to look at his pale eyes and unwashed hair, know he meant every word, meant that slug.
    Wondered if my own face looked the same—sleepless, prematurely aged—but I wasn’t pretty. My eyes are brown. Hair curly, unmanageable. Can’t brush it from my face, can’t sweep it behind my ear with chaos-cool. Didn’t have the balls to kill myself. Afraid of death. Wanted rest, not eternal rest. Mainly rest from the interminable noise of vacuums and treadmills, the sounds of my plugged-in mother, who happened to walk in my door at that instant.
    “What are you doing?” she said. Her hair shined platinum. She’d had it colored recently, to impress our new neighbors.
    “Just packing these magazines.”
    “You can’t take all that stuff. There’s no room for it.”
    “I’ll make room.”
    She picked up an empty soda, eyed it, sank it in the trash with a surprisingly accurate underarm toss.
    “Eli,” she said, like she was talking to a stubborn child.
    Mom bent over again, picked up a crumpled newspaper.
    “I’m saving that.”
    “This?” She looked at it. “It’s from May. All crumpled up.”
    “There was something in there I wanted to save.”
    An article about a Japanese installation artist who takes everything from his apartment, sets it up in a gallery, an exact replication of his own living arrangement. Gallery stays open twenty-four hours. People can use the apartment as they please—sleep, lunch, work, etc. He’d set one up in Boston. I’d considered going, hadn’t. Never been to an art gallery before, couldn’t see myself among the wine and cheesers. But I’d kept the article. On the floor, but I’d still kept it, read it over a few times. At another installation he’d just cooked pad thai, served it to people all day. That could be me. Ladling food into Styrofoam bowls, nodding. Spreading simple pleasure.
    “Keep it if you want it.”
    “It’s about this Japanese artist guy.”
    “Do you want it or not?”
    “Just toss it.”
    “I don’t have time for games. The movers will be here soon. And turn that music down a bit.”
    “Fine.”
    “C’mon Eli,” she said, left the room.
    Took everything off the shelves: sports trophies, which get taller and taller, then end at eighth grade when I started smoking pot, didn’t feel like running sprints, not worried I might need better stamina for sex when it actually came; baseball glove, a Wilson, soft black leather, frayed edges, hardly fit over my hand anymore, still smelled like spring somehow; ten-sided dice from my “Maybe I’ll fit in with the D&D freaks” phase.
    Closet: large