I never could escape this place. After so many years, I stopped caring; unable to go forward, I just retreated into my books and online distractions. Almost an entire decade reading every airplane novel written from 1975 to 2001, endless hours watching history and pop culture YouTube videos, e-drama. How many hours on Facebook? At first conversing with my college buddies, keeping up with family. But that grew tired; I could no longer keep up drinking and blathering—complaining, really—with friends over Messenger. They got tired of it, I got tired of it. Night after night, there was nothing more to say. At some point, it became going through the motions: post a video or article I found interesting, or a quick and—to me—profound insight. Then trying out the new features. How I would announce the new brewhouse I was trying, or new movie I was going to watch, or posting “currently reading.” Novum ad infinitum ad nauseam. The responses grew fewer, friends drifted off. At some point, I realized there were to be no more get-togethers, no more nights downing beers and chasing girls. What was left to talk about? My next maybe career move? Dead-end jobs, dead-end relationships. When your friends move on in their white-collar lives and you still work a job you were overqualified for before you even graduated high school.

***

Peary’s thoughts continue in a stream. He walks in a slow, swinging pace, balancing two bags in his hands. Dressed in chino pants, polo shirt, and work boots, he strolls along the streets of this first-ring suburb he called home for over a decade. The summer’s night is cool and damp. The midweek evening crush dissipates.

Reading, always reading. True crime, fantasy, crime drama, horror, historical fiction, sci-fi, biographies, history: all these I read. I think that made me the happiest when I was alive.

He stops before an empty building, a bar called Miller’s Inn. A sign placed in front announces, “Coming Soon: Happy Tails Dog Wash.”

Peary chuckles. Can’t say I’m sorry. So many wasted nights with the neighborhood guys. Nice enough, but not for me. The endless cycle: work your shift, watch the latest HBO or Netflix series, go to the bar three times a week, maybe there is a fat girl there, fuck her in an on again/off again relationship until you figure out nothing better is coming along, have a kid, fight, separate, and viola! The cycle repeats.

It’s better this way: dogs are better company than drunks, anyways.

Peary considers the empty building for five minutes. Memories of lubricated camaraderie, the feelings of false warmth, and beer goggles love assail him.

It got to the point where the smell of yeast and cigarettes made me want to vomit and smash shit.

The memories grow fainter trailing into the ether as he walks on down the main drag to a side street and finally stands before a strawberry box house just on this side of being run-down.

Home.

He knocks, and a hardy lean woman in her sixties answers the door. “Son! You’re home.”

Peary smiles, “I know. Sorry it’s so late, but it was the best flight I could get with my schedule.”

She smiles back and hugs him. “Come in. I have dinner waiting. Chili con carne, the way you like it. Brutus missed you.”

A black and white collie mix trots in from the living room, a little stiff but tail wagging.

Setting down the two duffel bags, Peary says, “Hey Brutus, boy. How’s my boy? I missed him. Who’s my boy?”

Brutus pauses, hesitates, and then bounds forward with all the old boy energy he has, happy to see his master. Peary strokes the dog and scratches him behind the ears.

Brutus rolls about like a puppy before Peary says, “Food?”

At that, the dog springs up and makes for the kitchen.

“Still a hound, I see,” He says.

“He can be a pain sometimes. But he’s good company, especially with you gone.”

The old lady hugs Peary. “Oh, I missed you. I wish you didn’t have to go all the way to Texas. How is it really down there?”

As they walk to the dinner room, Peary answers, “Oh, just flat, dusty, with nothing but work and roughnecks all day. Can’t complain, though, with the money I’m making in the oil fields. At this rate, I’ll have my student loans paid off by the end of the year.”

“Well, table’s set, I’ll bring out the food, you make yourself comfortable,” his mom says.

Peary sits thinking, I only had to rip off and kill one drug dealer to cover all my loans. The annoying thing is having to parse out the money in regular cash deposits at the ATM.

“Smells good.”

***

After dinner, the three of them relax in front of the TV catching up on a crime comedy-drama and talking.

Just like I never left, he thinks while stroking Brutus’ head, the dog refusing to leave Peary’s side.

“Did you hear about those murders?” his mom asks.

“Yes, they’ve been making the national news, and constantly fill my Facebook newsfeed.”

“It’s just horrible. And the protests, it’s like it’ll never end. Though I am glad none have happened on this side of the city. But just in case, Joe has an unofficial neighborhood watch going. You know he asks about you often.”

“Good. I worry sometimes. How is Joe, by the way?”

“Okay. His mother died a couple weeks back and I don’t think it’s fully sunk in.”

“I’ll have to see him tomorrow. Have you given thought to my idea?”

“Well, it sounds good, but I wouldn’t want to take your money, though this place is run down.”

“It’s fine, mom, I’m making an assload, and with what I’m learning and the contacts I’m making, money isn’t a real worry.”

I’ve got two and half mil so far jacking the Oak Grove Gang and more to come once I start into their suppliers. And it’s not like I have to pay for food or shelter. One of the perks of being dead.

“I just don’t feel right,” she says.

“Feel nothing. I got the money, I’m set. With your retirement and me helping out with the down payment, you can move to that community at the Glades. Mom, it’s nothing after you supporting me for three decades, really.”

Silence for a moment. The cop on screen commits a faux pas; they both laugh. Brutus pants, looking at both of them happy.

“Alright, son, I’ll start looking into it next week.”

“Good. I’m paying for the moving company and the down payment on a new car too.”

***

After Peary wishes his mom a good night, he sits in the dark of the living room. Street yellow light pours in through the blinds as an 80’s action movie with Mel Gibson plays on mute.

Peary stares at the golden Southern California sun on the screen.

I never saw Los Angeles. Someday I should go. Even if it racks me to the bone, I would sit on the beach and watch the sun set over the Pacific. If only just once.

He pets Brutus, rubbing the old dog’s ears.

“Want to go for a late night walk, boy?”

Brutus rolls back and lets out a chuff.

“Guess not, a belly full of food makes for a tired doggo.”

***

Peary walks the side streets listening to the rustling titter of the night wind in the trees seeming to say: “Peary, do you know you can’t ever go home, but neither can you leave. 21, 30, it doesn’t matter. This was your lot in life for as long as you had lived.”

He meanders until he sets a course for the park near the highway. Traffic is light this time of night as he watches the few cars race along in the distance.

Finding it in shadow, clear as day, Peary sits on the swings.

Funny, he thinks, I hated being stuck here in life, but now I miss it. Did it matter that I didn’t have what everyone on Facebook seemed to have? All lies, a front, a game I wouldn’t play. Funny how I thought being honest was the ticket. Never was, never will be. Now I am beyond that. Even in death, life is still funny. Like someone upstairs recorded the punch line and is waiting to add the laugh track. Is God that cruel? Did He forget us down here?

Peary looks up at the heavens trying to penetrate beyond the cloud cover.

A wan smile crosses his face. Funny how I can remember being drunk and bullshiting with Mark about how anime was weird shit, but I can’t remember the color of my first girlfriend’s eyes. I haven’t talked to Mark in over five years. Maybe we forgot each other down here. My father certainly forgot my mom and me. Maybe that is it. My friends forgot me, maybe we forgot ourselves. When you “grow up,” nothing matters but those bills, being “responsible” for everything but each other. “Facebook,” “Face,” “Persona,” “Mask.”

Peary lifts off the ground, pumping his legs to ride the swing higher and higher. He recalls when someone used to push him; half-formed, half-remembered glimpses of a male figure.

It’s been 25 years and as far as I am concerned, the man is more of a ghost than I am. I am more alive than any of them: my friends on Facebook, those teachers in school, the actors on TV, the Internet personalities, all the girls I thought I could fuck. All masks and lies.

Faces peer at him from the bark of the trees. Some familiar, some strangers, all crude facsimiles. He sees them more and more. All watch silent and serene.

I hate lying to my mother. It kills me.

An owl hoots; rats and mice scurry in the undergrowth; an alley cat yowls. Peary can hear it all; he yowls back at the cat and others join in.

He kicks his legs and rides the swing. Higher and higher he swings until he launches. Alighting onto a jungle gym, he watches a convoy of National Guard troop transport trucks and Stryker APCs heading into the city.