BY BRIAN RIHLMAN
It’s heaven and hell for we obsessive
types. Almost midnight and I’m
still trapped in this web. A thousand
faces. Mugshots. An ex girlfriend’s
daughter’s going away— drugs,
prostitution…and man! those eyes got
hard over the last six years. No tears
in them now, not like that first shot
in 2014, when her mascara ran like
rivers of black down smooth white
cheeks, and she looked down, and away.
Now she stares straight at the camera,
at me, with eyes the shape of broken
glass, eyes that say, “Fuck you!
This ain’t nothin’!”
Now I’m searching random names.
Digging just to dig…flinging dirt.
And here— holy shit! My high school
girlfriend’s uncle. The cool aunt and
uncle, just a few years older than us,
who used to get us drunk, let us crash
at their pad. He stares at me, with an
angry red gash across his forehead,
blood down one side of his face.
That night….almost 30 years ago…
I was 17. I remember him with a
pool cue in his hand, swinging.
A billiard ball whizzed past my head.
Someone got in my face and I swung
wildly, my fist connecting with his jaw.
We ran when the bartender yelled
that he’d called the cops, and escaped
unscathed, somehow…laughing and
high-fiving as we passed the flashing
red and blues coming down the road.
I look again at his photo. The steel eyes.
The blood. Jesus, dude…what the hell
are you into these days? But how I
avoided posing for a shot just like it,
all these years, is a question for
somebody much smarter than I—