Bro Hymn – Jon Lindsey
July 1, 2021
Me and the bros up here on traffic island, downing brews. Bros brown bagging. Concealed carry, like we got permits. Bros don’t ask permission, only forgiveness. Island-style nobody gives a shhh, everybody loud af, and there are no secrets.
I’m on bro island. I’m on the island of the bros. I could be an anonymous bro on any archipelago. “Bro, why you got that mask on?” Masks keep things safe, and secret. Everybody masked up, except us bros. Except my bro’s mask is different, it’s a novelty mask, it’s a rubber rooster mask. Full-on latex coxcomb. “Bro, why you chicken?” “Why you got your cock out, bro?” I’m pissing behind the bushes because it’s secret. Bros keep their cocks secret.
A stream of traffic flows around the island of the bros. Cars move in both directions past the 99 Cent Only on Sunset. Played out island music plays out of a woofer set. The sun is setting on us bros. Us bros, out here, going nowhere. Us bros who were here before the traffic. And after the traffic passes, bros will still be bros. Here. Nowhere. That’s no secret.
My bro, The Rooster, on the curb asking for scratch from a chick in a yellow Lambo. Him and me ain’t in the same boat. We’re both on bro island. But I’m a tourist. He a local. I buy his Four Loko. He says, “And a lotto.” His favorite flavor Gold. “Bro you’re loco.” “I know.” It’s no secret. He’s an open book. I say, “I’m a writer.” Some bros still write books. I’ve never finished a story, but I keep that secret. Other Bro says, “Me too. I’m a writer, bro.” I seen him stocking shelves at Trader Bro’s. But he says, he got a story coming out in The New Yorker. “Hell yeah, bro, The New Yorker.” He got an agent. A New Yorker. “What’s an agent, bro?” “Yeah bro, what’s an agent?” In Los Angeles everything is loco and you meet different flavor bros. He treats it like a secret, his agent.
The sun is set but the sky is golden above the island of the bros. The stream of traffic slows. All us Lokos drunk, and Other Bro says his gf at home, hot af, whispers, “Hairless, bro.” The Rooster builds his nest for the night in secret. He’s in the bag. Rolls out his bag. “Not those bushes, bro.”
Me and Other Bro walk close, and our distance from the island grows. Even though I’m gone, I’m still stranded.“SOS, bro. How I get an agent?” I need to know the secret.
I say, “Bro, what’s your secret?”
He says, “Can I kiss you, bro?”