Squat Parts: 3 Stories

Squat Parts - 1: The Brother

If he walked in a straight line, he would arrive somewhere. He would see a street he remembered. He would recognize a sign. A cop car would drive by with a city name stenciled onto its driver's side door.

He passed rows of gray warehouses. Cars didn't drive. Pigeons didn't fly. Rats didn't crawl.

There were barbed wire fences, traffic lights, and loading docks. Black graffiti hid a bus stop's list of route numbers. Buildings had no windows and gates were locked.

At a corner, he wobbled forward. A liquor store stood on the other side of the intersection. The blurry letters above its door spelled "AML LIQUOR" or "ANI LIQUOR."

He pushed the glass door. It didn't open.

Inside, a cashier flicked a lighter, her thumb rolling over the striker, sparking yellow flames. Her eyes were closed.

He knocked on the glass.

Something about the woman looked familiar. Maybe he had seen her before. Or maybe this liquor store looked like every other liquor store. And maybe this late-night cashier looked like every other late night-cashier. The more shifts these tired employees spent behind their counters, the more cigarettes they sold to 2 am drunks, the more fake IDs they took out of high school kids' hands, the more their shoulders stooped, the more blood drained from their cheeks. He knocked on the glass a second time. Her eyes stayed shut.

No "CLOSED" sign hung in the window. Fluorescent bulbs flickered, chips hung from chip racks, six-packs cooled behind refrigerators' sliding doors, and 24 Hour Energies lined the counter. Products waited to be bought, but the door's lock kept customers from going in and buying them.

The lighter's flame spurted, disappeared, shot up, died. He slapped the glass with the palm of his hand. She didn't react.

Smog rose over rooftops, shrouding stars.

His weight fell toward the sidewalk. Before he hit pavement, one of his feet flew out and kept him upright. He moved, careening from the curb to the warehouses and back again.

Hard surfaces constrained his path. Streets were built to support the weight of semi-trucks. Buildings secured goods. Fences kept thieves out. He had no license plate and no bar code. No conglomerate owned him. Stores didn't expect him on their shelves by the end of the week. He was a bird buried in the dirt. The earth's weight kept his wings pinned down. No breeze carried him away.

He stayed true to his straight line. At every intersection, he kept his eyes on the corner ahead. He wouldn't be seduced by the roads that ran in unexplored directions. They wanted to betray him. To turn him around. On their paths, he would walk in circles. They would keep him. Trap him.

He passed warehouses and warehouses and warehouses. The landscape repeated. Nothing changed. Then, a break in the line of cement walls. On the other side of the street, light poured through windows. Another store. He wobbled to the door and pushed himself against it.

The door was locked. It didn't move.

Inside, a cashier with stooped shoulders and blood-drained cheeks stood behind the register. She flicked a lighter. Her eyes were closed.

He took a step back. The store's sign was hard to read. It said "AML LIQUOR" or "ANI LIQUOR."

It couldn't be the same place. He hadn't walked in a circle. The store was a chain. It was a different store with the same name.

He threw himself against the window. He cried for help. He begged the cashier to let him in. Her blue lighter flamed. Her eyes didn't open.

His body didn't have the strength to stay standing on its own and he pressed his forehead to the glass. It kept him upright. He couldn't raise his tired arms. His calves ached. The night refused to let the sun rise and he didn't know how many hours he had been walking.

Inside, on top of a sunglasses display stand, a mirror showed a woman's reflection. Not the cashier, but a woman he knew. His sister. She stood behind him, her mouth hanging open, barnacles growing on the back of her throat, shouting. He couldn't hear her over the sound of his own voice.