He rolled up in a tank while I paced outside the shrink’s office.
You know what I’m gonna say?
Yeah, I know what you’re gonna say.
I said I knew what you were gonna say!
Before that, when I got locked up for a barfight he showed up in a nude bodysuit, shook the bars.
It was their fault, I said, licking blood off my grotesquely swollen lip. He yanked at the door, howled.
At graduation he stood in the front row in a bespoke navy suit, a paper bag over his head. When everyone stood, he sat. When they sat, he was on his feet.
I fist bumped him at commencement. Fuck yeah, I said.
He shoved some grapes and brie up the bag. Swallowed. I’m not famous anymore.
Before that: high school. My mom’s pills, an open casket. He drops by with Bumblebee.
“Message from Starfleet, Captain,” the autobot intones. Shia pats my shoulder.
I’m sorry, too.
He shows up, thick with red dust, at my elementary school. He reeks peaches and onions. I ignore him—flick scabs off my knuckles, stare at the dirt.
Life wouldn’t be easier as a movie, he says. We watch a yellow spotted lizard sun herself on the asphalt. A slow indigo tongue slides across her eyeball.
Cut, I say, but he’s not there anymore. Please cut.