after Denise Duhamel
It wasn’t as perfect as it seemed.
I snapped hundreds of photos for each
Instagram post and my darling wife
and kids hated me. My job title
was impressive, but I was basically
a lacky for the CEO. She was into S&M
and tortured me in the company warehouse.
I was deeply in debt for our gorgeous house
on the lake. I had an affair with my secretary—
cliché, I know—until she blackmailed me,
threatening to ship DNA evidence to my wife.
My powerful physique was propped up
by hormones, which made me impotent.
I hadn’t talked to my parents for years,
then they died, first Mom then Dad.
Who has the time? I was busy chasing dollars
and dime store infatuations that went nowhere.
My wife and kids left me on the side of the road
after fixing a flat and I walked seven miles
back into town and rented a little walk-up
on Taylor Street just down from the bowling alley
and a bar called The Cherry Pit. I became a regular
caricature of myself, singing karaoke to drunks
until 3:00 in the morning. I lost my job
and moved into a refrigerator box
under the interstate. The constant drone
of traffic became the breath of the universe.
It brought me to the realization that I didn’t know
a sparrow from a mockingbird, so I showered
at the Y and worked on job applications in the library.
Now I’m a social worker on the south side
helping mothers deserted by cold men to fend
for their families in dark tenements find their way
into meaningful careers. It doesn’t pay shit,
but I’m glad to be making a difference.
I haven’t posted on social media for eight years.
.
Al Fournier
Picture Rupert Loydell
.