But I Have This

By Robert Repino

The man is ahead of us in line for the bumper cars. He is alone among giggling children and groping teenage couples. My boyfriend Brett holds my hand and pretends not to stare.

The man’s hair, a mottled clump, covers only part of his head, which is pink and wrinkled with the scars of some horrible burn. His pale eyes do not seem to blink. His mouth is a slit surrounded by useless flesh. He wears an untucked “USA” t-shirt over stonewashed jeans.

A mother scolds her daughter for watching the man with her hands over her eyes. Like Brett, the man pretends not to see.

Brett mumbles some joke to me, his hot breath smelling like beer. He asks if it’s Halloween around here, and nods to the man in the USA shirt. He says come on when I don’t laugh.

I had decided weeks ago that I was going to break up with Brett, after discovering a pathetic e-mail he had written to his ex-girlfriend on the computer at our apartment. The letter had expressed regret that things had not worked out with the ex, and went on to say that she had been the only one he could ever really connect with, that she was the only one who could understand a guy who dropped out of school to take care of his dad, that he knew she never held it against him. He still said the same thing to me on occasion.

So Brett had settled for me and my tiny apartment and my three feuding cats. But I had settled for him as well. He had always expressed interest in the things about me that others had never noticed or had purposely ignored, like my squealing laugh, or my stupid job at the drugstore, or the growing lip of fat that hung over the front of my jeans.

I am so weak, I had told myself as I deleted the e-mail. But then, not much later, I had applauded the strength it had taken to forget about it, and to smile like I always had when he put his hand into my back pocket and told me that I smelled good.

A ponytailed girl takes our tickets at the entrance. Brett is annoyed when I release his hand to secure a green car, #5. He plops down in red #6. The man in the USA shirt walks over to a car in the corner that no one used the last time—yellow, with no number.

The bad 80’s music begins, and the vehicles jerk to life. I don’t wanna lose your love …toniiiiiiight. Sparks buzz on the wire mesh above. Brett bumps me and laughs. Everyone is too close together to ram into each other. The yellow car approaches, and the traffic jam breaks up. Brett spots the burned man over his shoulder and steers away from him. The yellow car manages only a glancing blow on the one ahead of me before skidding into the wall.

Traffic moves in a clockwise circle, with collisions blocking the way. Brett gets caught up in a group of cars, and I know that he’s waiting for me to hit him. He laughs as I collide into his rear, and grabs my steering wheel to veer me off course. I turn and face the yellow car against the wall. The man inside waits for someone to hit him, but the children just drive by. Two boys, probably brothers, look at each other and laugh after passing him. He tries to chase another car, but the passenger—a girl with no front teeth—screams and spins away from him, her gums gleaming.

I knock Brett’s hand off my wheel and do a U-Turn. He asks me where I’m going. I hear the ponytailed girl’s voice over the loudspeaker saying that we’re not allowed to drive backward.

Ahead of me, the cars roll forward, their drivers wide-eyed and hoping to blindside me. The yellow car steers into traffic. The man’s head is down as he fumbles with the controls. A squealing girl in a blue car narrowly avoids hitting him.

I am going home with Brett tonight, I tell myself. I will be weak again. I will be alone, like this poor man, even when I’m with Brett. But I have this, at least. We have this.

I have a clear path. My pedal is on the floor. The man looks up just as we collide perfectly, the force of it lifting me slightly out of my seat. His head snaps forward. Some people waiting in line say, “Oooooh!”
The man’s unblinking eyes meet mine. His slit-mouth quivers. I want to believe that he’s saying thanks.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Robert Repino grew up in in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania. After two years of service in the Peace Corps, he moved to Boston to pursue an M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Emerson College. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Word Riot, The Furnace Review, and a-pos-tro-phe. Despite numerous groans from his friends, he still thinks it's funny to say that writing is the second-most fun a person can have by himself.


	But I Have This By Robert Repino The man is ahead of us in line for the bumper cars. He is alone among giggling children and groping teenage couples. My boyfriend Brett holds my hand and pretends not to stare. The man’s hair, a mottled clump, covers only part of his head, which is pink and wrinkled with the scars of some horrible burn. His pale eyes do not seem to blink. His mouth is a slit surrounded by useless flesh. He wears an untucked “USA” t-shirt over stonewashed jeans. A mother scolds her daughter for watching the man with her hands over her eyes. Like Brett, the man pretends not to see. Brett mumbles some joke to me, his hot breath smelling like beer. He asks if it’s Halloween around here, and nods to the man in the USA shirt. He says come on when I don’t laugh. I had decided weeks ago that I was going to break up with Brett, after discovering a pathetic e-mail he had written to his ex-girlfriend on the computer at our apartment. The letter had expressed regret that things had not worked out with the ex, and went on to say that she had been the only one he could ever really connect with, that she was the only one who could understand a guy who dropped out of school to take care of his dad, that he knew she never held it against him. He still said the same thing to me on occasion. So Brett had settled for me and my tiny apartment and my three feuding cats. But I had settled for him as well. He had always expressed interest in the things about me that others had never noticed or had purposely ignored, like my squealing laugh, or my stupid job at the drugstore, or the growing lip of fat that hung over the front of my jeans. I am so weak, I had told myself as I deleted the e-mail. But then, not much later, I had applauded the strength it had taken to forget about it, and to smile like I always had when he put his hand into my back pocket and told me that I smelled good. A ponytailed girl takes our tickets at the entrance. Brett is annoyed when I release his hand to secure a green car, #5. He plops down in red #6. The man in the USA shirt walks over to a car in the corner that no one used the last time—yellow, with no number. The bad 80’s music begins, and the vehicles jerk to life. I don’t wanna lose your love …toniiiiiiight. Sparks buzz on the wire mesh above. Brett bumps me and laughs. Everyone is too close together to ram into each other. The yellow car approaches, and the traffic jam breaks up. Brett spots the burned man over his shoulder and steers away from him. The yellow car manages only a glancing blow on the one ahead of me before skidding into the wall. Traffic moves in a clockwise circle, with collisions blocking the way. Brett gets caught up in a group of cars, and I know that he’s waiting for me to hit him. He laughs as I collide into his rear, and grabs my steering wheel to veer me off course. I turn and face the yellow car against the wall. The man inside waits for someone to hit him, but the children just drive by. Two boys, probably brothers, look at each other and laugh after passing him. He tries to chase another car, but the passenger—a girl with no front teeth—screams and spins away from him, her gums gleaming. I knock Brett’s hand off my wheel and do a U-Turn. He asks me where I’m going. I hear the ponytailed girl’s voice over the loudspeaker saying that we’re not allowed to drive backward. Ahead of me, the cars roll forward, their drivers wide-eyed and hoping to blindside me. The yellow car steers into traffic. The man’s head is down as he fumbles with the controls. A squealing girl in a blue car narrowly avoids hitting him. I am going home with Brett tonight, I tell myself. I will be weak again. I will be alone, like this poor man, even when I’m with Brett. But I have this, at least. We have this. I have a clear path. My pedal is on the floor. The man looks up just as we collide perfectly, the force of it lifting me slightly out of my seat. His head snaps forward. Some people waiting in line say, “Oooooh!” The man’s unblinking eyes meet mine. His slit-mouth quivers. I want to believe that he’s saying thanks. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Robert Repino grew up in in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania. After two years of service in the Peace Corps, he moved to Boston to pursue an M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Emerson College. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Word Riot, The Furnace Review, and a-pos-tro-phe. Despite numerous groans from his friends, he still thinks it's funny to say that writing is the second-most fun a person can have by himself.