-Insert Title Here-

The Oregon sun shines hot, so hot my petunias are practically sizzling off the face of the earth. I don’t know why I even bother, nothing grows in this dumpy town without a totally controlled environment. All must be controlled, which is sort of funny considering that 112 years ago it was total control that fucked our planet over.
I heard Oregon used to be wet and rainy and that plants were sprouting up everywhere, even from the concrete walls of buildings. It’s incredible how much can change. I look to the street; it’s rather old; cracked and worn from the feet of many steel cows, their milk leaving rainbows on the ground, their cries waking me from my nightmares.
It sucks living on a boulevard. No peace, no quiet. But it’s also sort of stellar because there are many interesting people to watch, and my third story apartment is the perfect place for my source of entertainment. Too bad nobody comes here to enjoy it with me.
I see a bus roll by, the words “Join the Green Revolution” plastered to the side of it. Nothing green about this place, ‘cept the mucus up my nostrils. Besides, who has the time to think about a revolution when they just realized that they missed their bus?
I make a mad dash for the elevator, furiously pushing the “lobby” button. The two floors of cheesy music I get does nothing to ease my rush, nor does the grandma-floral-splattered wall paper.
I hear the ding and I bolt towards the lobby’s front door. The floors gleam from a fresh wax, luckily I don’t slip.
I don’t check for traffic as I run across the street. By the time I am to the other side, my chest is lurching, my run has slowed to a speed walk, and my heart is using my body as a punching bag. As I fall to the ground, I see the blurred image of my bus rolling into the daylight; I feel the gravel sticking to my sweat covered cheek.
My eyes explode open, revealing me to the gray cubicle I so humbly work in. I do in fact feel something sticking to my cheek, but instead of gravel to sweat, it’s a paper clip to drool. That’s attractive.
I realize I was merely dreaming, although it wasn’t really a dream. It was more reliving my yesterday, my thoughts and my actions. No, when I dream, I dream. I dream of running away to the green rolling hills of Ireland, my dear love standing by my side, a gay pride flag dancing in the gentle winds behind us. Well shit, now that I think about it my dreams sound more like an over produced political commercial.
“Yo Queer-O!” The douche bag named Daniel yells.
“You got a house to repo. Don’t screw it up; we need the money from this one.” He says to me, smacking his wintergreen gum and acting like he’s just a notch above Everest. God, I’d like to knock him off his self righteous pedestal.
I am a repo man, taking the meager possessions of those who can’t afford to pay up. What I really wish to do is repossess the organs of this delightful fucktard the world calls Daniel.
Light years snail by, inching their way to the end of the work day, the time I look most forward to. I drag my steel bones home, drawn to the couch like metal to a magnet. I click on the TV, channel surfing, looking for anything to seize my mind. I find a preacher, a blond kind looking human being speaking to an auditorium full of people whose lives yearn for meaning. I stop to listen. Damn, this dude is some Anti-Gay oaf preaching his discriminatory beliefs to the entire world. What a shit faced fool. He wouldn’t even know a gay guy if he was staring him right in the eye. All this mo-fo is talking about is the prissy, girly, tight jeaned gay man. Which that’s something I don’t get. Why do gay men have to be so feminine? I want a man because he is a man. I don’t want some dick dressed up as the sugar plum fairy, complete with glitter. That’s for girls. I want a big, strong man with arms long enough to wrap around my fluffy body.
Shit on toast, I’m going to the gay bar.
Four shots down and my head is spinning more than the disco ball on the ceiling of this cell I call alcohol.
As I stumble to the dance floor, a man catches my eye. Handsome, daring, and far too beautiful. His eyes sing a song for me to listen to, his hair weaving a story longing to be told. He glows with the confidence of a sober man, and my drunken stupor feels drawn to him. I shuffle my way over, letting the music, his music, fill my soul, control my movements.
We lock eyes, his becoming the peanut butter to my jelly; destined to be together, to gaze into one another. Without speaking a word we dance; we put life into the empty energy floating in the room, like blank hallmark cards waiting to be slathered with words of comfort, congratulations, and praise.
The minute I saw him I knew; he’s the one I want to run away to Ireland with.
I grab his hand and we escape the chaos of the bar, venturing to this lovely park entrapped in a dome of control, for nothing grows green in Oregon without total environmental control. I walk with him, hand in hand, moving almost dreamlike.
“Do you want to go to Ireland with me?” I ask. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s his warm hand holding mine, or maybe it’s the feeling of confidence I get just by looking into his eyes. He smiles to me, revealing two rows of imperfectly white teeth.
Off we run. We run to the place where it will all begin. A place of magic, of science, of passion and love. We run to the airport.
In Ireland we stand now, the green rolling hills spilled out onto the land in front of us, a gentle wind teasing our senses. We are standing side by side, love by love. This is all too perfect, all too unreal and serene and phantasmagoric. I look around at the world enveloping me, I look at Ireland. That’s when I see it, right there behind me, a gay pride flag dancing in the wind.
I watch as my love, my wonder of a man, swirls and transfigures into nothing more than the fog of a dream. Ireland spins away, brilliant colors of greens and blues, to reveal the dark shadows of my eyelids.
It was just a dream.

-Insert Title Here-


Joined April 2010

  • Artist

Artist's Description

My story about a gay repo man living in a post apocalyptic Oregon.

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