What Men Talk About While Their Fingernails Bleed
A conversation and a new Substack format
Hey guys,
I’m going to start sending out a poem or two a week. Here’s one I’ve been playing with for a little while. I’m also going to pick some art that feels reflective of the poems I post. Let me know what you think of the new format and poems. There are already a few other ones on my revamped Substack page.
Till next time,
Justin
What Men Talk About While Their Fingernails Bleed
by Justin Gil
I remember not too long ago when I was as green and blue as the Atlantic. Ten years past prime stock boy age. Crab-walking cold rooms wrapped with bottles, cans, and milk. Cold and swaying like dead winter leaves. Left alone to put away drinks for what seemed like hours in the fridges where I found joy. Moving mindlessly and coming up with synonyms for words that stuck to my brain. On busy days the boss would come in to give me a hand. A good man, a man I respected. He was quick, quicker than me. We were the only two guys in the place, so I think it was purifying for him to have another man to talk to. And so, we brainlessly filled gaps in the stockroom while he went on like a machine. I’d listen to what he’d say and silently agree, not to interrupt his engine. One busy morning in the chiller he was monologuing about his first marriage. ‘Well, ya know we evolve at different speeds, if we ever evolve at all.’ His facial muscles twitched as he articulated his thoughts. ‘We all want different things ya know, and have different experiences- even if you're living together! And maybe that's why I share a lot now-’ he paused and relaxed his face, ‘because that’s how you make life simpler, with communication and understanding!' I stopped what I was doing and turned to him with a smirk. ‘Well, that’s some of the most elevated cowboy shit I’ve ever heard!’ We laughed and hummed until a group of young boys opened the doors, working the fan harder until it drowned us out. Some of the things he said were like that. Like the stuff I read in my books. The stuff you could read, but wouldn't understand till you lived it. The fan roared some more. Our jaws were sore and our fingernails bled from ripping boxes. During our forced silence we went back to work. I conjured up some synonyms for the word ‘evolve’ and pondered their legitimacy. The freezer reregulated and the fan eventually stopped. My boss resumed talking and I listened. Realizing he was talking about his life and mine.