By A Story By Matt Evans

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At the end of time, or at least at some crazy point in history, they will exhume my body and still find my blood pumping, quite quickly, as it is now. And to no avail, they will not be able to rid it of the stench and dirtiness still lingering from the days from which no morals can be exhumed. So, they will be forced, with no other option, to drag the body by its feet from a drunken horse around the city like some poorly kept fascist, like Mussolini or a Borga pope, until no trace of humanity is left.

Then they will be happy.

Then my memory will be avenged.

To avenge what I do and what I do not in these very moment when I do know what I should and should not do to find one great moment in the bottom of a glass. At least, one moment of courage, I tell myself to rise and address those who need addressing. The very person out of the corner of my I eye, I must address, for she, the cute one, the one I conversed with earlier in some less drunk state.

“Hello,” I say, as she moves a little in her chair. Her friends surround her, mildly entertained by my attempt to speak. “We should go hang out some time, because you’re quite a good pool player.”

Then I catch myself.

I sense it in her eyes.

She is not a good pool player.

She might well be that, but for that I do not know; she is a pinball wizard, and then I put myself back on track to stardom, as she laughs and her friends laugh more.

I stumble through some more conversation.

Her face seems to light up.

So I continue on.

I think it would seem natural to play more pinball, maybe in a tournament, so I suggest just that, and I feel my locus moving. Something seems quite content to move my gravity in other directions. I pull back and I hear some laughing.

“You’re not even going to get her number,” I hear, out of the corner of my ear. Then I turn. It’s Gabe and his girl talking to me, knowing the eminent: The night has left and now we are going with it. I must leave with them and my roommate, Damian.

But I continue on, trying for some better standing with this girl, and her face continues to light up. Though, I tell her later, Thursday in face, we will play pinball again, and I leave.

For I hear it again — “Come on, let’s go,” she says, “you’re not even going to get her number,” and I retort, quite skillfully: “I don’t need it. For she will be here when I need.”

And I stumble down Bardstown Road, back towards the car, and we get in and go. We fly away, almost flying above the ground, as the lights reflect themselves in the window.

We arrive and I am left by myself. I decide the morning has not yet begun. I make it down to the Magnolia Bar and Grill.

Down the alley I go to that little place. A car creeps upon the back of my heel. I turn around and see a black Honda Accord and some old fart, balding, leaning his head out the window. He must be at least 30.

He starts up and asks for directions for this or that bar. I deliver them in my slurred speech, talking the best I can. He asks questions here and there: who’s at this bar, who’s at that bar. I respond that I do not know. He asks who’s at the bar down the road, the place I am going. I tell him. Lesbians. Gay people. Straight people. He laughs.

Then he gets to the point.

“Look, I’m just looking for someone who can give me a blowjob,” he says quite matter of factly. “Do you think there is someone like that in one of those bars?”

I say, oh yeah, get someone drunk enough and they’ll do just about any thing.

“I’m looking about 50 bucks.”

I tell him go. Just hurry. The bar’s closing.

He goes on and on.

And on and on.

His conversation seems quite unending and quite uncomforting.

“Look,” I tell him, “I know what you’re getting at, and I’m not going there. I’m drinking more and come a few seconds you can get the fuck out of this alley.”

Quite deterred, he leaves, and I continue down my path and arrive at the bar. I squeeze into the bar, past the bouncer, quite shyly and take my place on the bar, sipping down a few more Vodka Tonics, adding to my misery. Looking around, I think, who is for me? Is there anyone? And I do not know. I make myself refuse to answer the question, getting more bitter on the bar as it closes.

I stumble home.

I go to bed.

Awake, in the early after

noon, I arise. Pain in stom-

ach, as I arrive at The Car-

dinal. Some shenanigans occur. Playful children bustle through the halls and I arrive at my boss’s office, Miss Amy Grimes. She goes on and on about this and that, on the phone, as I wait.

She tells me about some computer calamity and I go about fixing it, as I always do, and I go around and check to see what’s in and what’s not. I find the answers, and I start my writing. I finish and go about to start some conversations that still do not end.

Evening approaches and I talk to Sarah. She reminds me that the band Train has done a song quite fitting of her, “Meet Virginia.” It’s about her. Though they do not know her. They could not know her. But I know her. Too much of her, in fact, she goes on about this or that, and the conversation seems quite awkward, spinning on its head.

Tension, I imagine, as always; maybe sexual, maybe contrived.

I leave and come back. No one is there. I can work now. Writing furiously, laying out pages, changing leads, writing headlines, checking pictures.

Quite tired, I wrack my knuckles, and I leave to come again another day.

I come back the next day; people bustling about. Dan Swan his old, usual sort of way, looks down at the sheet, spins around to his computer, and then answers the phone like it’s his first day on the job. But it isn’t. It’s not even his last.

I start my day and end my day

the same. Yelling. Throwing

things. And I know things will

be the same this week and the

next. More things to do and more things not to be done. More people to defend and more whores to sell.

Type a little faster. Type a little slower. Don’t type at all. Find all those lies to type about and then type and retype and type once more until nothing else can be said, until it no longer seems so funny, so hilarious to make you smile. Find those little errors, so small that no one can see. Say what I think you need to say, tomorrow and today. Find the truth in a few mangled phrases and chords of English so true. What do I do but write those some stupid words over and over and over again. Who am I to blame but myself, and then I ask myself: For what am I here, for who am I to defend? I do not know, simply, for if I did, I might not ask myself these questions.

I move out of retrospective mode, ready to make a killing, slopping up all the writers in my inkwell. Not much time left I tell myself, and then I let it all go: the RGB, the PM, the EIC. I see it all flushing away, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, or so I tell myself.

A liar and a dog and a beaten man all in one furrowed brow, now looming over it all so heavy with indignity and grace. I look to find the enemy on the low road, the conspiratorial thought, and the deed left only imagine. This, I only hope. For this I know. Not for me but for someone else today or tomorrow.

I know this all. For this is what I leave behind – a record of my thoughts in each word I write. Will this or the next word be trivial? I do not know. Only time and humanity can tell.

Matt Evans served as managing editor under Amy Grimes for the 2000-2001 school year. Prior to this, he served as features editor for two years and assistant sports editor for a semester. After this, he established the Cardinal web site and helped keep it running for a semester. He graduated in 2001 with a Bachelor of Arts in communication and political science.