THE POSSIBILITY OF A GARAGE
To feel pain in pursuit of memory
IT IS ALWAYS HIMSELF THAT THE COWARD ABANDONED FIRST
From the desk of Tyler Has A Gun, the anonymous homie raised an interesting theory at the bar last week. He proclaimed that Wingstops with self-serve soda machines are of superior quality to those with soda machines behind the counter.
An interesting theory that I will be following up on in the coming weeks. A full Phoenix Wingstop tour is imminent. Hang on to your love.
This week I paused the fiction work for short prose on something I’ve been thinking about. Enjoy!
THE ONLY SALVATION IS YOUR SALVATION
The place of my dreams exists in the boundless realm of my imagination—wild, untamed, free to roam, to be expressed as violently or as peacefully as I please. A place where everything I’ve ever wanted exists, even if that everything is just an empty room, so be it. A place to fill with my thoughts, my struggles, my love, my tears, my anger. I dream of the possibility of a garage—an enclosed space to call my own. A place to store my things or a place to forget about them.
I’ve always envied those with a garage, space enough to park their car without battling the elements. No layering up in winter, no waiting in the biting cold for the engine to warm. No baking under a relentless sun, sweat pooling in folds you didn’t know you had.
A garage is a sanctuary—whatever you need it to be. Love can be found in an empty garage, rediscovering what’s been forgotten until the seasons change. It’s a retreat, a place for solitude, to step away. In my adolescence, I would spend time in my dad’s garage—a world of noise, screws, tools, a graveyard of forgotten parts, where chaos was utility. I can hear the hum of the oscillating box fan, stirring life into stagnant air, I see my dad and uncle taking turns lying beneath whatever truck or car needed their attention that week.
“Fetch me a socket, 7/16th… no, not that one. Move—I’ll get it.” I was never made to feel bad for not finding the right tool, but I studied, determined to learn, so the next time my name was called, I’d be ready. I can still smell the lingering grease, feel the weight of the goggles shielding my eyes from the blinding sparks of the welder, I still hear the scream of an angle grinder. There was tension in my dad’s voice as he wrestled with machines that seemed to fight back with unyielding resolve. The scent of metal, the taste of rust—it’s all there, etched in memory, made possible by a garage.
I dream of my own garage. A place where I can create. A space to write, to paint, to grow. A place to forget and to remember. And just in case I wanted — a place I could end my life. The option is always nice.
* * *