extra

by Jaime Jacques

Julia wants to perform her piano piece for the school talent show, but with a blind fold. For a little extra pizzazz, she says. I’ve been drinking four cups a coffee a day instead of two, and linger a little longer each time I walk past the new bar. My massage therapist is really going for it, talks over the 528 Hz about how men can’t bother to put on clean shirts, how a watermelon costs eight dollars and nobody is willing to stand up and say anything. Like, how long are we going to take this? I say I don’t know about the men but the watermelon is still cheap in Mexico and my co-worker Grady says in 10 years we’ll all be poor so I might as well just quit my job and go. He’ll keep delivering mail though, because he likes how it lets him interact with architecture. Louis wants to climb K2 because Everest is too commercialized. Sixteen years old, he gets up at one in the morning to run 4 x 4 x 48s. Pounds the pavement under a dark cold sky. Says he likes the feeling of accomplishment. I hear: I’m terrified.  During my haircut I mean to ask for a little extra off the side but instead I say genocide. I think we should focus on what’s going on here, my stylist replies. Some people get beds and some people get tents. Rent control has really saved my ass this year. There’s a bit more money for gas. I drive to the beach after work, where whales get together to ram up boats. As if to say: The party’s been over for quite some time.  Don’t you think it’s time you went home?

Jaime Jacques currently lives in the ancestral and unceded territory of Mi'kma'ki, where she delivers mail and sometimes writes poems and always drinks too much coffee. Her poetry can be found in places like Rattle, Rogue Agent, Variant Lit and Birdcoat Quarterly. Her reporting can be found in NPR, Salon and Lonely Planet among others. She has a deep and abiding love for Central America, where she lived for several years working as a travel writer and binge eating mangoes. She is a poetry reader for PRISM International.