Passengers

Three weeks of rehab 
created twice as many issues 
than it cured, 
from being so far away 
and set at an inconvenient time, 
laugh all you want, 
but not everyone has DVR. 

I’ve been a little preoccupied 
these last few years, 
nevertheless, here I am, 
fresh out of rehab 
with another debt to juggle, 
a job that is slowly sucking away my soul, 
while the rest of it tries to survive 
through a delusion of broken dreams 
and fragmented promises. 

                                             BUT ALAS! 

What’s the point of complaining? 

I’m sober now 

and the entire world is my oyster: 

a slimy, 

filth-eating, 

stubborn, 

brainless, 

spineless, 

ugly exterior of a world 

that can only be described as an oyster. 

Anything else would be dishonest  

and untrue.

So here I am, 

waiting for my wealthy brother’s chauffeur, 

a big Russian 

by the name of Pickop Andropov. 

My brother told me 
that he’s not hard to miss, 
not just with his superior genes 
body shaming 
every perfect celebrity couple, 

              but, 

                       well, 

                                  he said I would just know. 

Sitting on the curb, 

I watch the city buses come and go 

                     f o r   o  v  e  r   a  n   h  o  u  r. 

I think about calling my brother 

to make sure I am, 

in fact, 

getting a ride, 

but I resist and choose not to. 

He is a busy man after all, 

managing all those lawyer offices 

and the like. 

I get up, 

lean against the rehab clinic door, 

and look out at the street 

just in time to see 

a gunmetal grey Rolls Royce 

drive up and stop in front of me. 

The driver side door opened up 

and out stepped the 

                        t

                        a

                        l

                        l

                        e

                        s

                        t 

and 

   B     R     O     A     D     E     S     T 

Russian I had ever seen, 
yet that wasn’t the most striking thing: 
he wore a 
migraine-inducing 
combination of neon patched pants, 
a tie-dye swirl of Earth tones 
which claimed to be a shirt, 
and a pastel orange suit coat. 

The vibrant Russian smiled at me 
with an all too bright 
legion of teeth 
as he made his way 
over to the passenger side, 
opening the front door.

At first, 
I thought he meant for me to enter, 
but before I could step forward, 
out came a lithe Asian woman 
with an almond shaped face 
and eyes to match, 
but by no means was unattractive. 

Her smooth, cream colored skin 
glimmered in the afternoon light 
of mid-autumn Seattle. 
Her hair was dark and elegant, 
like a Ravens dowry of feathers.

She made her way over to me and 
introduced herself as my new personal 
hygienist, hired by my brother to help me 
get back on track. How typical, but I 
accepted the help nevertheless. She spoke 
softly and said her name was 
Otaika Showa, 
and that she was Japanese. 

You’ve got to be kidding: 
first, the glorified taxi driver, Pickop Andropov 
and now a hygienist, Otaika Showa? 
What’s next – 
a Dutch chef named Yumi Datsgüt? 

Well, not quite.

While my attention 
was mulling over the undeniably absurd, 
but altogether not impossible, 
pairing of names and professions, 
I failed to notice Mr. Andropov 
fetch another passenger from the backseat. 

Another woman, 
but wearing a midnight blue work suit, 
subtle red lipstick accenting her mouth, 
golden skin, 
and a bundle of dirty blonde hair 
tied into a ponytail. 

She reached out her hand 
and I shook it. 
She introduced herself as Sarah T. Onin. 

Doctor, Sarah T. Onin, 

my new therapist. 
She had been hired to assist me in 
continuing my rehab in the world 
and to help me find happiness and 
pleasure in life.                                         Figures.

With all the formalities out of the way, 
we all entered the luxury sedan 
and Pickop began to drive us to our 
destination. 

For sometime, 
an awkward silence 
filled the interior 
of the multi-million dollar car 
and all that could be heard 
was the engine’s one-note song.

“I know this must be a difficult time for you, Miss Molly,” Doctor Onin began to say, but I stopped her.

“Please, call me Anna,” I said with some resignation. 

Anna Molly.
The anomaly.

Guess it’s only appropriate for me 
to be surrounded by such characters.

“As you wish, Anna,” Doctor Onin continued, 

“we’re only here  to help you 
readjust to the world. 
We are at your service.” 

I stared at them for a while, 

contemplating my new life and what to do, 

when a question suddenly *p   o   p   s*

into my mind.

“How’s Monty?” 

All of them, 
even Pickop, 
looked at me with quizzical expressions. 

They were obviously unaware. 

“Monty, 

                my 

pet  

python.  

Please tell me he’s been taken care of in my absence?”

                                                                    FIN