Article Title

I Am a Weak Man


John Baum


I am laying on the roof, wearing night vision goggles and squinting through the sights of a secondhand paintball gun, waiting on her '81 Chrysler K-Car to come farting down the street towards my house. The truth of this immediate scenario, that this should be embarrassing on several levels -- I'm an adult, for God's sake -- nudges at me but I remain focused.

Her car slows to a flatulent stop across the street and my breath seizes up a moment before continuing in short puffs. I'm thirty-two years old and terrified of this woman who still thinks this house is mine. Now I live in a storage unit she doesn't know about.