flash fiction #1

Charlie didn't know what to think, but he thought anyway. Charlie thought about how he always felt like he'd never grown up. And what's more, Charlie felt like he had not grown up in stages. One minute Charlie was a rage-filled rebellious teenager ready to hide a pistol in his jacket for tomorrow morning in homeroom. Another minute Charlie was a shy, scared boy, growing up in that fuckin' farm town in Central California, the kind of town where everybody's skin was some shade of earthy brown, just like his. Or Charlie was a freshman in college on New Year's Eve, drunk on Southern Comfort and Dr. Pepper and dreaming of what his life would be like in the future. Sometimes Charlie would be fumbling in some bedroom with some lady that his cousin Enrique had set up for him. She was a little old and sad in the eyes, but she had a sweet, round ass and small but pleasant tits.

There were several of these minutes, millions of them, all different, and now they added up to over sixty-some years of living, of surviving. Surviving like he was never really present anywhere he was because he was always feeling like himself at another time in life. And he didn't know what to think about any of it. All he knew is that he would like turkey on whole wheat and a side salad with that spicy low fat ginger dressing, please. And an unsweetened iced tea.