Hirsch The Second Coming

The Second Coming

You take a moment and look at the stars; its one of those clear, distant nights that makes you feel how far away they are, how heavily they hang suspended in the void. Your breath rises between them, expanding silently in a frost-touched cloud. Winter sharpens the edges of everything and the chill seeping under your coat feels strangely comforting. Two boats pass by each other quietly in the distance, lights crossing in the dark. Their wakes meet and create interference. Crystal waves tap against the pier beneath your dangling feet in syncopated irregularity. Your arms are slowly going numb, resting on the metal railing that overlooks the water. The river sighs, restless; the trees shush it gently. A sharp breeze carries ice under your jacket, into your bones; you shudder and shrink in on yourself for heat. The lighter in your right hand shakes as you put its flame to the sculpted glass bowl in the left. The river walk is sheltered from the city by an

aging thruway and a row of long-empty factories. You came out here because its what you do when you come back into town and she wants to talk without her family right there. This is your place, yours and hers. It is desolate, empty and solitary, like the end of the world. Shit, its freezing out here, she says. You nod, breathlessly cold. How long are you in town? she asks, Back for good? The questions tumble in your head. She sounds plaintive, a touch hopeful, which hurts a little. You take a hit, then hand her the bowl, letting the smoke roll across your
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Hirsch The Second Coming

tongue and down your throat. It is bitter and comforting. Despite your occasional visits, it feels like years since youve been back. You feel old, like a newborn. I dont know, you say, Im sort of drifting. Your head is light. The rope is kind. So youre, what, couch surfing? Yeah, for now, you tell her, I was thinking of staying a while, but it depends on if I can find work. She lights up, takes a toke. She always likes to talk while shes exhaling; it makes her sound like Darth Vaders wimpy kid sister. There are jobs here, if you look hard enough. You both go quiet, watching the river. Seagulls screech in the air, circling in a widening gyre over some unseen flotsam. The full moon traces a path across the river; shifting crescents of black and white dance around and through each other in pregnant swells. The effect is hypnotic. Your eyes are drawn in. For a moment you feel like you could step down off the pier and walk across the light like it was the road to Oz or Asgard. She tries to pass you the bowl again, but you wave it off. Im good. I think it was dead anyway, she says, and taps the ashes out. They scatter suggestively. You pull a bottle of Arbor Mist out of your backpack, unscrew the cap and take a quick swig. It is obnoxiously sweet, like spiked grape soda, but its tradition, a holdover from more innocent days when you couldnt afford anything better. Not that you really can now.

Hirsch The Second Coming

Thats a good piece, you tell her as she pockets it. Yeah, it was my Christmas present from Dad last year, she says, The colors are supposed to change over time when you use it. Nice. More quiet, more soothing stillness. You pass the bottle back and forth, drinking a sip at a time; the ritual must be maintained. The breeze finally dies down. You feel mellow. I miss this, she says after a while. Yeah. The place hasnt changed much. There is some fresh graffiti on the brick walls that line the river, but the pier is the same, three corrugated steel and concrete pylons wedged under a slowly rotting slab of wood. Green flecks of paint fall away under your fingernails as you pick at the ancient railing and think of the retired fishermen who always lined the dock when you were a kid, with their big buckets of water full of baitshop minnows and tackle boxes ranged along the little bike path, warm under the sun. Im sorry about your breakup, she says. The stars glisten. You wipe your eyes with frigid fingers. Things fall apart, you say, It wasnt working out, and we couldnt hold it together. Thats a nice way to put it, she says, but what she did was really fucked up. Yeah, well, its not the end of the world. Except thats exactly how it feels. Your girlfriend cheated; your fears and suspicions were justified. Your world went nuclear, and now theres nothing left but

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wasteland and patches of grey dust where life used to be. You shake yourself, bored by your own melodrama. This is not a good place for your thoughts to go; this is not the way to catch up with her. Your head is clearer than youd like. Youre already coming down. Tolerance is a bitch. Sorry. Hey, I know you just put it away, but would you like to pack another bowl? She smiles, wry and dry, pulls her magic piece back out and a dime to go with it. No stems, no seeds; the good stuff you usually save for holidays and rock stars. She is surprisingly efficient, and youre duly impressed. Youre like a professional with that thing. Practice, she says, smugging it up for you, cigarette swinging jauntily between her lips, Lots and lots of practice. How the hell do you afford it? My cousin; you remember Ronnie? He got into hydroponics a few years ago, started off growing tomatoes and shit, then eventually gave up the charade. He uses one of the old Bethlehem Steel buildings to store it; calls hit his plant plant, the dork. He hooks us up when he crashes at our place. No shit, you say, Ronnie? He was such a straight-edger. Oh, he still is, she says, smirking, But that just makes him a better dealer. Besides, he wanted to move out of my uncles place, put on his big-boy pants. You know youre not selling me on the work opportunities, you tell her, Does anyone here actually have a full time job at a living wage? She lights up, takes the first hit, passes it to you.

Hirsch The Second Coming

Yeah, she says, holding in her breath while she talks, Just no one we know. You need a degree now just to fold tacos. Fucking hell, you say, and take a hit. Just remember, we were poor before it was cool. Hipster. Yep, she says, Now fetch me my skinny jeans! I crave irony. You laugh and it makes you cough, which makes her laugh, which makes you laugh even harder, but you cant stop coughing and the two of you end up crying and coughing and laughing together. Its not even that funny. Youre really, really buzzed. The water jumps up and slaps wetly at your feet. You feel like you could fall in; youre not sure youd mind. Holy shit, you wheeze, Is this cut with something? Hell no, she laughs, Youre just weak like a bitch. She takes a swig of Arbor Mist, gagging a little. Hypocrite. She gamely gives you the finger. How many nights did you spend with her on this spot, smoking up and talking about the future? You used to joke about getting married here; youd make it a big postmodern, gender-bending affair, bring a girlfriend and a boyfriend each, just to confuse everyone. You were so proud of yourselves, reveling in your own shock and awe. You were going to rewrite love, transcend the old dualisms. It feels like twenty centuries have passed since then. I cant remember how we got here, you say.

Hirsch The Second Coming

Well, theres a little bridge over there that you climb onto from the tracks... Bitch, you know what I mean. She sighs. Yeah, I know what you mean. She is staring out at the water again, and from the look in her eyes youre scared of what shes seeing. Something bleak settles into your belly; your body tenses like youre getting ready for violence. The stars seem dimmer, all of a sudden. Im pregnant, she says. Your stomach turns to stone. Im sorry, you start to say, or congratulations, but your lips are numb with cold and weed and alcohol and a rising sense of stupidity and failure that has been building up in your gorge since you walked in on your partner having spectacular sex with someone younger and more certain than you, more full of passionate intensity. The anarchic wind is picking up, carrying a hollow rushing water sounds that might be the river and might be the blood rushing through your head. It tastes like salt. Your cheeks are damp. So are hers. Is this good news or bad news, is all you can muster. She sighs, takes another drag of her cigarette, another mouthful of cheap wine. You know what I hate? I hate that I cant answer that one, she says. Are you keeping it? Jesus fuck! What? Im just asking, you say, Its not like Im grabbing for the nearest coat hanger.

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She punches you in the arm. Oh, for fucks sake, you know what I mean! Give me back my bowl, you tard, she says, and lights it again when you hand it over. Her hands shake a little as she smokes. Should you be - She shakes her head. Its a bit late to start worrying now, she says. She knows, you can tell, that this makes no sense, but you also know better than to press. Shes always been better than you at embracing cognitive dissonance; she wont kill it, but she wont not kill it. Damned if shell follow conventional logic like some plebe. Whos the father? you are already tired of asking the standard questions, but you cant quite seem to stop yourself. She sighs again and shifts on the concrete. Hes my brothers friend, she says, Tommy. Young guy, stupid, hung like Jesus. Good in bed? God, you have no idea! Are you... What, dating? she asks, No. Nothing like that. We barely know each other, honestly, but that was part of the appeal. Werent you careful? Yeah, but... well, see, hes a little too big and...

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It broke, you say. All of this feels so painfully known, like you were having the conversation before the words came out. You take the bottle from her and chug that fucker down. When its empty, you throw it out into the river, far as itll go, which as it turns out isnt all that far because youre a little wimpy and a little tipsy. How long? you ask. She watches the current, taps her cigarette into the water with the same hand holding the bowl. You wonder how she manages these juggling tricks without burning herself? Its magic, surely; some clevel new riff on smoke and mirrors. For a stoned moment you think maybe she is smoke. Ladder to the stars, and all that Roxy Music stuff. Two months, she finally says. Wow. You try to picture it in your head; a tadpole smaller than your thumbnail. Will it have ears yet, a face? Youre going to have to read up on this. Youre way out of your depth. Something splashes out in the darkness, a trout probably. The gulls dive for it, shrieking. The breeze picks up again, heavier. You smell the cold air and breathe deep as you can. Have you told your parents? you ask. Yeah, she says, Mom freaked. Dad just looked sad. That hurt. That sucks, you say. It isnt adequate, but its all you can manage. Are you going to keep living with them?

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For now, she taps the bowl with the lighter, gets it lit again, still holding her Camel, They dont have room for me as it is; I hate that Im doing this to them. I think this is nearly dead. Does he know? you finally ask. Her voice is flat, devoid. Yes. What did he say? Hes worried; he just started working, its part time, minimum wage, stocking shelves at Topps. Its not enough to pay rent, much less raise a kid. Christ, hes only nineteen. He hasnt even started college yet. Where is he living? She takes another hit, holds her breath, lets it go. It expands as it rises, blue against black. His moms basement, she says. Love of Mary. Yeah. This is such a cluster fuck, you mutter, Is he going to help you at all? Maybe. He says wants to try. Good man, you say. Maybe, she says again, I dont think he can, though. Also, his mother hates me, thinks Im trying to trap him or something. What, with your vagina? Something like that.

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Your head spins a little. There arent words. God, its not like youre the one having a kid, she says. The whole world shimmers and glitters. Distant lights turn to jewels. The stars start bleeding into the purple sky. She might be. The words are almost a whisper. What? She told me after I found her fucking that Jersey Shore reject, you tell her, I was still packing my stuff when she told me she was pregnant. Cunt! Yeah, you say, lacking conviction. I wish youd said something, she says. Pass that? you ask, then, Its not exactly easy to talk about. Fair, she says, Is she keeping it? There isnt a trace of irony in her voice. You envy her that quality. She wont tell me. She grunts, hands you the pipe, the lighter to go with it. You pull in smoke like oxygen. Any point asking whose it is? she asks. She has no idea. Charming. Your taste in women is astounding. I wonder why we never dated, then? you ask, and she punches you again, chuckling.

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There is so much to say; it all clamors to get out, like a horde of fat men trying to squeeze through a tiny door. The patterns in the blown glass piece draw your attention, blue lines writhing sinuous through green, like snakes in water. She stands up, brushing herself off. Dont go, you manage. Im not, she says, My ass is freezing. And you have my pipe. You give it back to her, giggling, and she cant help it; she follows along. The lights on the other side of the water glimmer cheerily as you shake your head. For a moment, despite your millennial ruminations, despite the unrelenting pressures of the real world beyond, everything feels fine. Youre with her, and shes better than any sister or lover could be. Shes you, two feet removed. She looks at you, What about you, are you going to help her if she keeps it? I planned on trying, you say, If she lets me. Its not clear thats going to happen - I said some pretty evil shit there at the end. Justified? Absolutely. Then fuck her, she says, and grounds out her cigarette under worn Vans high tops. Never again in this lifetime, and its your turn to sigh. Good in bed? God, you have no idea. She takes one last hit, offers the bowl back to you again, but you both know youre both done for the night. The high just isnt enough to make up for the low.

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Lets go home, she says, You can crash at my place. Home sweet home, you say, and strangely mean it. The sky begins to lighten as you put your arm around her shoulder, and together you walk back into the world with the river at your back. Parallels dance in your head. All around you stand monuments to civilizations end; the experiment has failed, and all thats left are cavernous shells of red brick and rust where creation was once a form of currency. You think of her kid, tadpole that it is, wading bloodily into a world that isnt ready for it; its twin riding in the womb of your own personal Salome, bathed in the juices of whatever shes been sleeping with this week. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. You wonder, briefly terrified, what rough beasts slouch toward Buffalo to be born?

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