Even serial killers have friends, says the poster in North Beach, San Francisco, the letters superimposed on a woman’s face, marring her beauty.
Do they? Do they have friends, or is all they have left is a mother discarded like an old milk bottle in a weedy lot, or a father whose long-time uneasy feelings have blown up like a tumor in his gut?
I don’t have friends, and I’m not a serial killer, not even a jaywalker or a tax evader.
A serial killer chews Pepto Bismal and Tums and buys a cheap pizza from Little Caesar, and takes it home and eats it alone, watches a football game, and hopes that the evangelist quarterback gets his spine severed (Let someone else do the heavy lifting tonight). But you don’t have to be a serial killer to do that.
I had friends. Many died. More died than should have, statistically speaking. If all my friends were still alive, the average lifespan would have to be a year or two more.
With greater frequency, dead people’s ashes are left in foreclosed houses. When you find them, what should you do? Dig a hole and chuck them in, plant a rose bush in the hole? The rest of your life, you catch the rose bush giving you dirty looks.
About the Author
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including Every Pigeon. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.