BY CABBAGE SAUCE

•••••The air is colder now than it’s been in months. Winter is going to reappear and swallow us up without us even knowing. I borrow a pair of River’s jeans, which are stretched to fit his slender masculine body. I got one of those hardcore punk rocker belts going through his stuff. As he drops his change into the machine, he promises we’ll go to the thrift store later this week to buy me some clothes. I might be developing a cold from wandering around at night without the proper winter equipment. Unsure of which direction to go, River studies the schedule. In five minutes, a train will head towards downtown. Five minutes after that another train will go downtown. Ten minutes after that a train will come from downtown. River decides we’ll take the second downtown train so that he can drink his coffee and have his morning dose of cancer.

••••• We sit on the bench, his head in my lap, mumbling about one thing or another. I watch the people standing across from us. They are a tan prepster couple looking scared and confused on their way to the excellent boutiques and coffee bars of the neighborhood. Gentrification has done wonders for this area. It’s increased rent seventy percent and decreased the number of patrons at Euphoria. It’s also made me feel out of place with my gothic pallor and lack of efficient clothing.
•••••River feels perfectly comfortable here. He tells me fondly of a time when such people would be terrified to walk around this neighborhood because of all the gang violence and child prostitution. Then some “fag artist and his boyfriend” decided that because of the low rent they should open up a coffee shop where the artist could show his paintings. River says Venus is the only decent place to eat if your diet doesn’t consist entirely of slaughtered baby cows. Then a retired Philosophy professor and his young Creative Writing professor wife opened Euphoria and had their Mohawk prodigy, River. Beatniks, hipsters and punks started showing up. A couple galleries popped up, and a music shop, which offers lessons in emo songwriting and classic violin. Then some big shot Suburbanite with family money started a writing class and art studio along with a publishing company. Finally, a thrift store, which someone wants to shut down because it attracts the wrong kind of people. Those who can’t afford to live in the neighborhood are the wrong kind of people.

••••• “I think we should go on a mass crime spree.” River says, ripping open a package of sugar and dumping it into his coffee.
•••••“Why?” I ask looking in my bag for something to occupy my time.
•••••“It just seems like it would be fun.” He opens another package of sugar and dumps it into his coffee.
•••••“How would we go about doing this?” I pick at my purple nail polish.
•••••“First we get a car.” He dumps another packet of sugar into his coffee. “Then we get a shit load of drugs, then we murder some prostitutes.” He stirs his coffee slowly.
•••••“How do we get the car?”
•••••“Dunno.” He rips open another sugar packet.
•••••“How are you going to get your license in order to drive the car?”
•••••“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t think this through.” He quickly rips open two packets of sugar and stirs his coffee. “It was just something I came up with because my Philosophy of the Mind class was unappealing.”
•••••I lean back in my seat. “If you haven’t thought this through, don’t bring it up.”
•••••He takes a sip of his coffee and smiles, “Why can’t I just kill hookers?”
•••••“You shouldn’t kill your own kind.” I scratch the scab on my wrist.
•••••“So clever.” He takes a slow sip.
•••••The green haired hipster walks to our table his Adicts t-shirt tucked under a gray hoodie.
•••••“What can I get for you?” he asks, spreading his legs apart and pressing his pen against the small notebook.
•••••“Where’s Kristen?” River asks, trying very hard not to shout or look at the hipster’s crotch.
•••••“Oh sorry,” he says, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “She quit a few days ago.”
•••••River stands and brushes invisible crumbs off his jacket. “Then there is nothing you can really do for me.” He places a five-dollar bill face down on the table. The upper left edge is folded. I take a final sip of my orange juice and follow him outside.

••••• He speaks in circles, in brilliant beautiful circles. His hands wave about rhythmically and frantically with the ash of his cigarette flying everywhere. Each blue hair is spiked perfectly in place, but it doesn’t look like he spent anytime doing it. There is a hole in his jeans right above his left knee. I don’t know how it got there. No one ever knows how they get holes in their jeans unless you buy them like that. Through the hole you can see his leg, so pale and thin because he doesn’t go outside enough and does too many drugs. Books, movies and music combine together to create something magical that leaves me light headed. It’s hard to convince myself that they are actually his. His hand is running up and down my thigh and I consider giving up. Those words capture everyone in the room. They all want to sit next to him, his hand running up and down their thigh, considering giving up, his lips kissing their ears.

••••• The futon has a large red stain in the middle. I think it’s cranberry juice but it’s safer to say its blood. My eyes are burning from the smell in the kitchen and sun is making its first lazy appearance of the day. Vampires throw judo kicks and blonde girls that shouldn’t be there have visions of the apocalypse. There’s the smell of cough drops again. “I remember watching this episode,” River says in a throaty whisper. “It was right after you dyed your hair black. You were such a shy little awkward Goth kid. I mean you were hot for the first week because you were mysterious and dark. Then it got really frustrating because that’s not you. It’s just someone that you convinced yourself you are.” The timer goes off and he returns to the kitchen.

•••••The train clangs overhead. We’re in an alley again. Always in an alley because on the sidewalk they can see us. His five o’clock shadow took three days to develop. I can hear the stranger sing “Uppers and Downers,” a tune that sends chills down River’s spine. JFK took amphetamines, he explains, and everyone loves JFK. And everyone loves a birthday boy when he turns eighteen.