Johnny Twilight
by David Ensminger
Johnny Twilight spent half of each day trying to get up, the other half preparing to get up. Around 4:00 p.m., he’d do some crystal meth and grab a few Budweisers, always adding a note of reduction to his high. This long gray passage became him. He wore ruddiness; that is, he carried a baggage of dark sleepless nights, ramen noodles, and Twinkies.
I first met Johnny at the laundromat two years ago. He was with Chop Suey Marie. Even then it was too late for middle-class tragedy, or tragic white kids, for that matter. Still, when he crouched in the corner of a motel room and nodded off on a moth-eaten pillow like a sock monkey, I was overwhelmed with desire and loss. Rings filled his navel and ears. Tattoos jumped from his arms. Something hummed an obscure Texas punk tune.
Anxious and broke, I walked the motel’s bleached sidewalks. A “Vacancy” sign flicked on and off, locusts filled the trees. The air hit my shoulders, fell in a clump around my ankles.
“Johnny,” the manager said, touching me as I grabbed a free coffee. He flanked the register, silhouetted by plastic ferns and AAA signs. “There ain’t no kid worth less.”
I turned around. Johnny smiled like a half-eaten orange. Then the wreckage began.