Saturday Evening a Year Ago

"Life isn't working. It's just stopping. Everywhere," he says. He says, "Everywhere," again to them. A beat comes in. A house falls on a small hill. The hill is open. The hill wants the house. The house has ten small flowers vibrating from the impact. "I'm trying," he says. He plays the song again. They all look at him. Jack grabs her face. Her eyes look afraid of Jack. Jack sheds twenty dollar bills on the floor. The lights are bouncing in the room. The room has it's Saturday night. The people are trying to enjoy the Saturday night. "Jack, if you can't write your thing tonight, you're not going to write it," she says. A huge green light bounces and two people collapse. "I just want life to work," Jack says. "It's going," she says. "It's going but it's not working," she says again. Another giant green light squeezes through the mail slot. They are having the end of their Saturday night. A thin man named Tim stands up and on his pipe. He waves the pipe in a circle. No one is paying attention anymore. She gets up from the bed and pulls the string on the lamp. It's just stopping. Jack wakes up on Sunday morning. He feels his jacket riding up his back. His ipod phones tighten around his neck. He frees his neck. He looks towards the window. He sees Robert twisted in the quilt. She's rolled up like a rabbit beneath a pink blanket. There are seven people elsewhere, discernible. The morning light falls on the whole building. Jack grabs his things. His book bag weighs less than usual. It's weight is so little it feels insignificant. The hallway pulses with thick heat. The building residents are cooking invisible soups. A dark room of twenty candles burns despite the daylight. "This is about me," Jack sighs and thinks. He thinks and hovers in the elevator. The door makes ten different noises. The people of Saturday night are counting. They are counting and hoping for it to stop. The noises of the door happen too fast. The house falls but Jack cannot see it. Life isn't working.