Exile on Kalamazoo Street by Michael Loyd Gray Page A

a family member, or anyone I could think of or even imagine, and I was not expecting an envelope from anyone in the universe, or even the universes of Mormons and Scientologists. The rules and boundaries of my self-exile had eliminated the expectation of any mail other than bills. I was sure this letter did not come from the chirpy letter carrier and so it was an x-factor as far as fate was concerned, and as far as I was concerned. The letter might well exist outside of the normal channels of fate. Perhaps it was a wild card, the joker in the deck, a mutation, and I was happy to believe that I controlled the letter’s effect on my destiny regardless of whether I opened it in a week, a month, a year, or never.
    After a time, I realized the envelope had no magnetic pull, no overwhelming power over me, and that to resist the letter might be a very good thing because in resisting it I was asserting myself in my relationship with fate. I was declaring that I had a say in things—in fate—and a degree of control, perhaps a large degree of control. By not opening it, I was establishing that my life might go on fatefully without receiving whatever message the letter carried and which might be a factor in fate if I opened the envelope and allowed what was inside to become activated along a channel of fate. After a few more days, I secured the unopened envelope to the side of the refrigerator with a magnet so I would not automatically encounter it every time I pulled open the door.
    * * *
    Bennie came back, of course. Drunks are stubborn, and so it didn’t surprise me to hear him knocking again on the side door. Drunks want a drinking partner and don’t give up easily. It was tempting to just not answer the door, but of course he knew I was home. I was always home.
    I eased down the steps to the door, still hoping he’d get tired of knocking and move on. That depended, I knew, on how recently he’d taken his last drink. If he hadn’t been to Louie’s yet, the gravitational pull from the bar could soon suck him away from my door. But if he’d stopped somewhere on the way over, he was fueled for a bit and might linger. No doubt he was convinced that a drink could yet be had at my house.
    â€œI know you’re home, Bryce,” he called as he knocked again.
    I looked over my shoulder, up the steps. Even Black Kitty had a skeptical look on his face. I waited a few more seconds and opened the door.
    â€œAbout fucking time, Chief,” Bennie said, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
    â€œYou’re not coming in with that cigarette, Bennie. That rule hasn’t changed.”
    I had meager hopes we could fight our skirmish at the door and he would soon be snatched by the drunks’ tractor beam from Louie’s and sucked up into the sky and out of sight.
    He smirked, blew smoke my way.
    â€œHave it your way,” he said, and flipped the butt toward the street.
    â€œIn my house, it’s always my way, Bennie.”
    â€œUsed to be, you didn’t much care what happened in your house.”
    â€œUsed to be,” I said. “Now we’re beyond ‘used to be.’ ‘Used to be’ is fifty miles behind us.”
    â€œThe clever writer.”
    â€œI can claim to have been a writer. I’m not claiming clever.”
    â€œLost your mojo, Bryce like in ice?”
    He had the ugliest smirk I’d ever seen. I knew better than to allow the conversation to drift into mojos and writing.
    â€œWhat do you really want, Bennie? I’m not going to Louie’s with you.”
    â€œWho said anything about Louie’s, Chief?”
    â€œHave you already been there … Chief?” I said. “Or are you on the way?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œNot to me,” I said. It was cold and I began to hope the cold would motivate him to seek out a drink.
    â€œCan’t a guy look up an old pal?” Bennie said, attempting to smile sweetly,