Milan.

Milan, Tennessee.

Nestled between Memphis and Nashville, and home to one of the Army's Ammunition Plants. It's a drain catch, for some. Hopefuls that are waiting for the bright lights of the stage, waiting to be discovered, or licking their wounds from having taken their shot. With MLAAP, there's a steady source of wages -- a perfect spot for bars with cheap drinks and disposable entertainment.

There's only so many David Copperfields and David Blaines.

Or...

...well, there you have it. Sure, there's Penn and Teller, but the Magician Success Story? It's less likely than Pretty Woman.

He was done with the floors, and pulling chairs off of the tables. It was a lot less in house magic act and a lot more bar back waiting for empty slots on the stage to ply his craft. That was the cold, unvarnished truth that matched the pitted scratched tables that chairs were being cleared from. Really, the only bright spot? He'd met a nice girl. A singer with a smile that could light up a room and a burr in her voice like Joan Jett. She was on her way to Nashville.

The liquor delivery didn't match the order.

Tennis shoes squeaked on the cheap linoleum that he'd waxed as he made his way to the manager's office. The second knock pushed the door open -- the door whose latch hadn't caught when it had been closed. The door that should have been locked.

He froze.

...

Later, outside. That spot around back where all the smokers hang out. Dozens of squashed, dirty cigarette butts littered the pavement like used up and abandoned dreams. There was a tremble in the magic fingers that were steady enough to spin a card like a basketball.

"Uh. Listen. About, uh. Well, I thought... ummm. You know, that we...."

A long exhale accompanied an eye roll. Fingers flicked a lipstick-stained butt, and a cheep calf-length boot that he'd shown her the trick to polishing ---a lighter and rubbing alcohol-- crushed it.

"Jesus, Chris. Don't be so fucking naive."


A finger slid over the edge of an envelope.

Really?

"Really?"

The word slipped out with a cannabis exhale, lost in the wind on the roof. It wasn't the same. Zoey? Just a friend. Smoking buddy. Bootie call. Scratch that -- prior bootie call. But it was totally the same. Sometimes? You don't mean as much to someone as they mean to you. And that's a Truth. For We, a bit of distance. But that hadn't meant they weren't friends, right? A little distance?

Friends don't Dear John each other. Friends don't skip addresses or phone numbers.

Fingers flicked, the butt of the joint sailing out over the edge. See that? Disposable.

But nothing in this world is as disposable as a person.

Don't be so naive.


Once more, watch me feel just like before
Running for my life
-- KMFDM, "Naive"