Snippet of the Magilla

-then I'm inside again, in a rush to get everything in order before anyone returns. I want to fall asleep early because I have a brain scan tomorrow morning. To check for tumors. Tumors might cause the ringing, the last guy said.

He said, "We'll do a cat and check out your schnoodle. We'll know everything the schnoodle knows. We'll check out everything. The whole Magilla."

That's how my doctor talks. He's a union doctor and looks like he owns a liquor store. He keeps me in Valiums and I tell him what the pussy is like in Savannah. I'm washing my hands, especially the thumbs. I have to find my pink shirt. I'm brushing my teeth. In the mirror I look much better from shaving yesterday and I like the shirt that I stole today very much. It's blue and says Texas with numbers under it; the fabric clings perfectly to my body. I can't remember the last time I've stolen something. I saw the opportunity and took it. I don't know why. Like in my dreams. I can't figure out if I feel guilty or not. Either way the shirt wasn't worth thirty-something fucking dollars. I think I don't feel guilty. 

I'm putting everything back into my red bag's long side pocket. What else? A bottle of water for dry mouth and incase I decide to take another Valium. A blanket. Grandma is coming, which always causes distress and confusion. I have orders not to sleep on the small bed but instead on the one hiding underneath it. It springs up as I slide it out, all made up in tan checkered sheets. I can't use the pistachio fleece blankets on the top bed. Inside the closet there aren't any blankets. Police uniforms are hanging from the rod on metal hangers. They are pushed to the right side, tightly stacked. At the front of the stack, a bulletproof vest with its own hanger. It belongs to my Mom's boyfriend, a cop.

"Look at that."

I've never seen one in person before. I'm smiling as I tap it where the plates go. It bends to my knuckle and sways. The plates aren't in it. With my left hand I grab its side and turn it towards me.

PAT COMMINS

Mom's name is printed on the square white rectangle. It's my Mom's bulletproof vest. They’re EMS uniforms hanging on the hangers, these days they look just like cop uniforms. My mother has to wear a bulletproof vest to work. She never told me that. Or maybe she doesn't even wear it, it's here and she's at work. I close the closet door.

I can't find my pink button down shirt. My friend's girlfriends love it. I'm starting to become hungry, but I don't feel like eating. I open the dresser drawer that has little sailboats carved into it.  There's my pink shirt and several other that I'd forgotten about, all folded and neat next to fresh blankets. I love my mother, my mother who wears a bulletproof vest to work. Sitting in the dark my ears are ringing louder than the ceiling fan. I'm taking two Valiums and one Ambien and-