Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

My hands touched my tattoo, to try and feel the hole in my chest, but all I felt was skin.

When I walked out again, old lady Rhonda said, "Now who wants some cake?"

"I'm starving," Enrique said, and I said, "Me, too," and Vern said, "You know what, I'm damn hungry myself," and she said, "All my boys are famished tonight."

We gathered around the cake; it had white frosting and writing across it in bright orange icing, the color of Home Depot: Let's start from scratch.

"Thanks for doing this," I said to old lady Rhonda.

"Once I go on `Wheel of Fortune,' we'll be set for life."

At first, I didn't say anything, thinking about me and old lady Rhonda, being set for life, having a life together in the first place. Then I said, "Do you really think so?"

"We'll either be rich and happy, or poor and happy."

She lit the candles. I put my face right over them, feeling their heat and taking a huge breath, blowing them all out.

"What did you wish for?" old lady Rhonda said.

But I didn't have time to answer her, because seconds later, the candles lit back up. I took another big breath and blew again. Some of them stayed out, but some came back to life.

Old lady Rhonda laughed and said, "Trick candles!"

We all cracked up.

"Come on, soldiers," Vern said. "He needs reinforcements," and they circled around the cake, the trick candles, circled around me, and all of us blew and blew until we'd finally put them out for good.

This is supposed to be an Acknowledgements section. But I have this theory that anyone you wish to "acknowledge," you probably also owe an apology, even for the most prosaic crimes and intrusions. So here's my litany in no particular ranking of indictments. First, my dad. He's dead, and I was a smug little prick most of the time we knew each other. I hope he knows I'm not as smug or as little or as much of a… well, two out of three ain't bad. To my younger sisters, I apologize for a lack of latitude in my guidance; I probably should have pandered more than corruption. So it goes. I did the best I could with my contorted sensibilities and will hopefully learn to nurture you in better ways. My mom: I'm sorry if people think the mother character in this novel is you. Trust me, it isn't. This is fiction; this is a cluster of lies; no reason for Ms. Mohr to suffer the consequences for my sordid imagination. My ex-wife, I guess the "ex" makes this one self-explanatory Mistakes were made… moving on. My step-mother, I'm sorry my dreadlocks gave the whole family lice while I was in high school. To every proprietor of every bar I flung drinks in: I drank on the job. I drank a lot. Really. It was ridiculous. I owe each of you like $20,000. To every ex-girlfriend for every set of sheets I soiled. To the selfless teachers in my writing life — Susan, Kate, Andrew, Dodie, Dan — I know I pestered you congenitally; but there were questions that needed answers, damnit, answers! Old roommates, yes, your accusations were all true. I stole CDs and drank your booze and played grab-ass with your significant others. To my favorite drinking buddies: Shana, Veronica, Marc, Matty Jen L, Stix, Andrew B, Rick, Rob B, Michael A, Michael L, CY, Aubs and Pep, Ro and K: "To livers aching like shin splints!" Everything I've ever said to any of you in a blackout cannot be used against me in a court of law To Eric and Eliza at Two Dollar Radio, a preemptive apology: I haven't known you long enough to do anything extraordinarily insipid, but it looms. To Amy and Robyn, I'm sorry if my insomniac emails ever made your jobs more trying (You try entertaining yourself at four a.m.!). And finally to Leota Antoinette: this isn't an apology, you don't need one; this is solely thanks for your resilience and advice and optimism and thoughtfulness and rousing heart.