Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Six Drinks: Part one
As he walked through the door, no one turned around. No one looked up. No one noticed him. That’s just the way he likes it. With his cane in his left hand, he reached for his wallet. He sat down at the bar and waited for the bartender’s attention. She asked what he wanted without looking at him. “Gin and tonic.” She served it to him without a lime.
There was a ball game on in all corners of the room. No one was watching. He remembered when there would be one on in a corner and the whole bar would cheer for a base hit. He picked up the glass, the first one he has had in twenty-three years. He licked his lips, swallowed his saliva, sighed and took it in one drink. He did it with his eyes closed. This allowed him to shut everything else out. He felt the contrast of alcohol and water. He felt the ice on his tongue.
He set his drink down and thought about his first drink. He was eight and his family was having a dinner party. After all the guests had left and his mother was in the kitchen washing up, he snuck down to hear what all the laughter was about. He missed the party but found a prize. There were still drinks on the table. He quickly picked up the first one he saw. It burned his throat and made him sad. He stumbled on the first stair trying to run away. He was never caught and he never told his mother.
At the bar he laughed. Oh what a sweet kid he used to be. He picked up the glass and raised it to signal another. With this one, he took his time. The first sip he swirled around in his mouth. He smelled the pine as regulars came and went. This one had a lime and he fished it out of the glass and threw it in his mouth. He relished the sour flesh, the tangy peel.
The day he turned twenty-one he walked fifteen blocks to meet his friends. He was early and the bar was empty. The waitress was reading a book. He sat at the bar and made some noise. She came over annoyed and asked him what he wanted.
“Gin and tonic.”
“What gin?”
“I don’t know, what’s the best?” She didn’t tell him. She walked away and came back with the shiny liquid. “Six dollars.” He gave her seven and she walked away tapping her fat fist on the bar twice after counting the money. He had mixed emotions about the fact she didn’t card him. He liked that he looked his age, at least, but a little upset that he hadn’t tried it earlier.
It was the third drink that gave him the buzz. He felt it first in his legs. He was getting impatient at the noise the baseball game made. It was much slower than he remembered. Too many commercials surrounded the ball players. He couldn’t see the score and he was getting hot. His beard was itching. He took off his coat and stood up. It rushed from his legs to his head and he had to breathe deep to stay on his feet.
He met Sam this way. Well kind of. He was out of college for two years and just moved towns. The best friends he had were the ones he drank with, so when he got to the city he unpacked his things and went to the closest bar. After his third drink he got up to piss and tripped on the stool next to him. The girl sitting there was alone but not about to let that go. She turned and looked him up and down. He apologized and she smiled. She wasn’t used to that. When he came back there was fresh drink waiting for him.
“That’s from me.” She liked his eyes and how they looked directly into hers. He felt very comfortable, just like it was his smile he was looking at. “I’m Sam.” She held out her hand, stiff with her elbow locked. He noticed a scar between her thumb and her wrist. “Arturo, but call me Turo.” She hated that name and the confidence he didn’t say it with. They went home together that night. Two years later they were married.
There was a ball game on in all corners of the room. No one was watching. He remembered when there would be one on in a corner and the whole bar would cheer for a base hit. He picked up the glass, the first one he has had in twenty-three years. He licked his lips, swallowed his saliva, sighed and took it in one drink. He did it with his eyes closed. This allowed him to shut everything else out. He felt the contrast of alcohol and water. He felt the ice on his tongue.
He set his drink down and thought about his first drink. He was eight and his family was having a dinner party. After all the guests had left and his mother was in the kitchen washing up, he snuck down to hear what all the laughter was about. He missed the party but found a prize. There were still drinks on the table. He quickly picked up the first one he saw. It burned his throat and made him sad. He stumbled on the first stair trying to run away. He was never caught and he never told his mother.
At the bar he laughed. Oh what a sweet kid he used to be. He picked up the glass and raised it to signal another. With this one, he took his time. The first sip he swirled around in his mouth. He smelled the pine as regulars came and went. This one had a lime and he fished it out of the glass and threw it in his mouth. He relished the sour flesh, the tangy peel.
The day he turned twenty-one he walked fifteen blocks to meet his friends. He was early and the bar was empty. The waitress was reading a book. He sat at the bar and made some noise. She came over annoyed and asked him what he wanted.
“Gin and tonic.”
“What gin?”
“I don’t know, what’s the best?” She didn’t tell him. She walked away and came back with the shiny liquid. “Six dollars.” He gave her seven and she walked away tapping her fat fist on the bar twice after counting the money. He had mixed emotions about the fact she didn’t card him. He liked that he looked his age, at least, but a little upset that he hadn’t tried it earlier.
It was the third drink that gave him the buzz. He felt it first in his legs. He was getting impatient at the noise the baseball game made. It was much slower than he remembered. Too many commercials surrounded the ball players. He couldn’t see the score and he was getting hot. His beard was itching. He took off his coat and stood up. It rushed from his legs to his head and he had to breathe deep to stay on his feet.
He met Sam this way. Well kind of. He was out of college for two years and just moved towns. The best friends he had were the ones he drank with, so when he got to the city he unpacked his things and went to the closest bar. After his third drink he got up to piss and tripped on the stool next to him. The girl sitting there was alone but not about to let that go. She turned and looked him up and down. He apologized and she smiled. She wasn’t used to that. When he came back there was fresh drink waiting for him.
“That’s from me.” She liked his eyes and how they looked directly into hers. He felt very comfortable, just like it was his smile he was looking at. “I’m Sam.” She held out her hand, stiff with her elbow locked. He noticed a scar between her thumb and her wrist. “Arturo, but call me Turo.” She hated that name and the confidence he didn’t say it with. They went home together that night. Two years later they were married.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Hot night
lead to a tall boy of high life in the panhandle with a roommate. Can you spell wonderful? I can and just did.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Yesterday was a
long day filled with a headache and nausea. I woke up round eleven-thirty and felt awful. At first I thought it was just a hangover but then it wouldn't go away. I tried to sleep all day, just to get rid of it. At 7:30 I thought I was fine so I got an Arizona juice and a doughnut. That didn't help. So I went back to bed. I stayed there until falling asleep and waking up at 1:30 am with no headache. Yesterday was a throw away day. However, I was able to stay up all night. I listened to music, watched some tv shows and a movie. Then I got up took a shower and went for breakfast. If I can make it to eleven tonight then I wouldn't have wasted a day. I believe that today will be much better. Enjoy your Sunday!
Dustin
Dustin
Sunday, August 15, 2010
These Hands. Page Five
He didn’t hear the thud. He was focusing on his hands. These hands. His naked body was still. His window was open. The floor was still just dirt and ash. But his hands were changed.
They were glowing. He put them together heard the releasing sound. He touched his face. He held them as far away as he could. He brought them close until they were just a smudge of pink, a blur of possibility. He slowly fell forward and caught himself, with his hands. He sprung back up. He touched his back, eyes, hair, chest, dick, toes. He touched his desk. He closed his eyes and held his breathe.
Pawing at the paraphernalia of his life on his desk he felt the scissors and the plates, the pens, the stuff and things. He felt around on the bed and felt the book and the magazines. He turned and thrust his hands into the mound of clothes. He felt the roughs and the smooths. He felt the clean and the dirty. He shoved his clothes away and splashed in the gathered water, juice soda, tea, beer cocktail. He found paper.
If he felt the numbers he didn’t know. He felt his hair again. He toyed with it. He rubbed it on the back of each hand. The grease, the grating sensation of rubbing it together. It meant something. He felt his head again. He opened his palms and laid them flat on the floor.
He pressed as hard as he could with his left. Keeping his fingers stretched he slowly lifted it up and held it flat an inch off the floor. He put his right down, pressing lightly. He felt the fingernail. He felt the ash and the dust. He felt.
They were glowing. He put them together heard the releasing sound. He touched his face. He held them as far away as he could. He brought them close until they were just a smudge of pink, a blur of possibility. He slowly fell forward and caught himself, with his hands. He sprung back up. He touched his back, eyes, hair, chest, dick, toes. He touched his desk. He closed his eyes and held his breathe.
Pawing at the paraphernalia of his life on his desk he felt the scissors and the plates, the pens, the stuff and things. He felt around on the bed and felt the book and the magazines. He turned and thrust his hands into the mound of clothes. He felt the roughs and the smooths. He felt the clean and the dirty. He shoved his clothes away and splashed in the gathered water, juice soda, tea, beer cocktail. He found paper.
If he felt the numbers he didn’t know. He felt his hair again. He toyed with it. He rubbed it on the back of each hand. The grease, the grating sensation of rubbing it together. It meant something. He felt his head again. He opened his palms and laid them flat on the floor.
He pressed as hard as he could with his left. Keeping his fingers stretched he slowly lifted it up and held it flat an inch off the floor. He put his right down, pressing lightly. He felt the fingernail. He felt the ash and the dust. He felt.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
These Hands. Page Four
Pulling out the thumbtack that was holding it up he opened it and dumped it on the bed. He knew what was inside; the book he was reading, two New Yorker magazines, headache pills. It didn’t occur to him that two of those pills would help his swollen head. He was searching for something new. A clue to who he was put there by someone else.
The bag proved useless. He was too logical to decipher what the contents actually meant. The book and the magazines were there to ease his bus trips; the pills were there to ease his head. I read and get headaches. Other people do too.
He threw the bag aside and it hit his trash bags full of cans and important envelops. The noise of the cans caught his ear. Are we what we don’t want? The bags were spilled, liquids running together and mixing with the ash and dust on his floor. He drinks bottles of flavored water, soda, tea, beer. Nothing.
The envelopes were not his to interrogate. The wrappers of food long since passed through him were meaningless. Scraps of paper were misdirecting cues. Receipts and tickets stubs all held the past. He found numbers that held his attention. 8945373624. He kicked bottles by walking the two steps to his bed. These numbers are something. Are these numbers me? He added them together he divided them, he multiplied them. He realized that he was not numbers. Numbers don’t breathe, more importantly numbers don’t laugh.
He tossed the numbers on the floor. The piece of paper flew into his closet. Clothes stared back at him. He stood but didn’t move forward. He twisted his head. He closed and opened his eyes quickly to see if he could change his perspective. He wanted to see who would wear those clothes.
They didn’t move. Without permission he inched forward. Aware of the bottles and trash, he shuffled his bare feet. He would hate to hurt himself at this moment of discovery. He slid by the closet door, careful not to touch it. He exhaled and extended his arm. He touched a shirt first. The fabric felt rough. He was confused that anyone would wear this material daily. The multicolored cloth held his imagination for a moment. Then with sudden haste he rifled through all of his clothes. Jeans, pants, folded and neat, a t-shirt, sweaters, button down shirts. Off to the side held his ties and his belts, different colors. Under that sat his dirty clothes bin.
He contracted his fingers around as much as he could grab. The hangers fought with no result. He threw them on the ash and dust, the still mixing liquids. How can I be something that varies so? I am not colorful.
He remembered his drawers. They too held misrepresentations. Why bother? He wasn’t going to find anything new. He wasn’t going to see his face in socks, in boxers. He won’t open a drawer and have meaning pop out. Soda stained a flannel shirt on the floor.
A door slammed and he felt a chill. He was stuck in his world for hours. He was on the verge of vomiting. He could not see straight but fought the urge to shake his head. That makes things worse. He hadn’t realized he was sweating. He could feel it on his whole body. Drops flowed down the back of his neck, behind his knees, on his upper lip. He was encased in sweet liquid.
His eyesight wasn’t failing him, it had just turned dark. The day had passed him. After falling to the knees he didn’t feel the pain on his bones.
The bag proved useless. He was too logical to decipher what the contents actually meant. The book and the magazines were there to ease his bus trips; the pills were there to ease his head. I read and get headaches. Other people do too.
He threw the bag aside and it hit his trash bags full of cans and important envelops. The noise of the cans caught his ear. Are we what we don’t want? The bags were spilled, liquids running together and mixing with the ash and dust on his floor. He drinks bottles of flavored water, soda, tea, beer. Nothing.
The envelopes were not his to interrogate. The wrappers of food long since passed through him were meaningless. Scraps of paper were misdirecting cues. Receipts and tickets stubs all held the past. He found numbers that held his attention. 8945373624. He kicked bottles by walking the two steps to his bed. These numbers are something. Are these numbers me? He added them together he divided them, he multiplied them. He realized that he was not numbers. Numbers don’t breathe, more importantly numbers don’t laugh.
He tossed the numbers on the floor. The piece of paper flew into his closet. Clothes stared back at him. He stood but didn’t move forward. He twisted his head. He closed and opened his eyes quickly to see if he could change his perspective. He wanted to see who would wear those clothes.
They didn’t move. Without permission he inched forward. Aware of the bottles and trash, he shuffled his bare feet. He would hate to hurt himself at this moment of discovery. He slid by the closet door, careful not to touch it. He exhaled and extended his arm. He touched a shirt first. The fabric felt rough. He was confused that anyone would wear this material daily. The multicolored cloth held his imagination for a moment. Then with sudden haste he rifled through all of his clothes. Jeans, pants, folded and neat, a t-shirt, sweaters, button down shirts. Off to the side held his ties and his belts, different colors. Under that sat his dirty clothes bin.
He contracted his fingers around as much as he could grab. The hangers fought with no result. He threw them on the ash and dust, the still mixing liquids. How can I be something that varies so? I am not colorful.
He remembered his drawers. They too held misrepresentations. Why bother? He wasn’t going to find anything new. He wasn’t going to see his face in socks, in boxers. He won’t open a drawer and have meaning pop out. Soda stained a flannel shirt on the floor.
A door slammed and he felt a chill. He was stuck in his world for hours. He was on the verge of vomiting. He could not see straight but fought the urge to shake his head. That makes things worse. He hadn’t realized he was sweating. He could feel it on his whole body. Drops flowed down the back of his neck, behind his knees, on his upper lip. He was encased in sweet liquid.
His eyesight wasn’t failing him, it had just turned dark. The day had passed him. After falling to the knees he didn’t feel the pain on his bones.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
These Hands. Page Three
He turns on a light, he smells them. He licks them. His ache for knowledge about himself has disregarded his taste buds.
He stands and rips down his pants turning around like a dog chasing his tail, not sure where to begin. Bald knee, chicken flesh legs, wrinkled penis, thick injured ankles. He sits down to examine his feet again. He forgot to check the bottom. Soft, not Neanderthalic, pink.
A moment passes and hair falls into his eyes. He grabs it, logic is not with him. He pulls trying to stretch it into his view. He doesn’t feel the pain. His tongue doesn’t reach it. Then he spots the scissors. He leaps, grabs the scissors used for cutting hair and cuts it from the roots. He holds it up like a scalp. He tries to scream but gets lost in the texture. Greasy, light, not as dark as I thought. He smells it; it’s a foreign smell. It smells good. He rubs it against his face. He puts it in his mouth.
He can no longer see the hair above his eyes. Treason. The hair that made up a small part of him is gone. The hair is not his and it is a waste to examine it. He throws it on the ash and dust gathered on his floor. He closes his eyes and sighs. At that moment he had never felt more lost.
He fell back on his bed and saw the cracks in his ceiling. He wished for it to crash down on him. He prayed for a tornado. He actually put his fists together. The tornado never came and he found himself suddenly awake. Hours had passed and the thumping in his head was more apparent. Where am I?
He saw the sunlight, it betrayed his mood. He had pulled his pants up and felt them hot, full of razors. He shed them with disregard to all pants. He stood and saw the window was open. He wanted to see outside. He was going to try a new approach. Maybe someone out there could tell him who he was. He took off his shirt and stretched out his arms.
With his head back and eyes closed he let the world examine him. He let the wind try to get at him. He let everyone in, but tried to keep himself out. He waited for days, for months, years. He held his breathe. He tried to cry. He ended up laughing.
What he wanted to see most were his eyes. People have commented on them. After his experiment with his hair, he knew that once detached, once removed, they were no longer a part of him. He opened his eyes and tried to feel them. He moved them back and forth, up and down. He made his zombie eyes. Laughter came.
That’s what he was. He knew it all along. This shell he was carrying wasn’t him. This was just a vessel. His legs, his hair his eyes, they weren’t him. He wouldn’t have to see his organs. This thought, this unexplored and relevant idea should have made him feel better.
Still he wasn’t ashamed. He still stood naked in front of the window and got a brief glimpse of enjoyment at the absurdity of what he was doing. He rubbed his head. A smile. His laughter didn’t turn to joy. Play the clown and laugh.
If it isn’t my body that makes me, what does? The idea lingered as he stepped to his desk. He saw what lay before him. Dirty dishes, things that fill his pockets, random notes about movies he wants to see. Pens, calendars, empty water bottles. Stuff and things. He smelled his watch before his attention was taken away. The bag by the door called to him.
He stands and rips down his pants turning around like a dog chasing his tail, not sure where to begin. Bald knee, chicken flesh legs, wrinkled penis, thick injured ankles. He sits down to examine his feet again. He forgot to check the bottom. Soft, not Neanderthalic, pink.
A moment passes and hair falls into his eyes. He grabs it, logic is not with him. He pulls trying to stretch it into his view. He doesn’t feel the pain. His tongue doesn’t reach it. Then he spots the scissors. He leaps, grabs the scissors used for cutting hair and cuts it from the roots. He holds it up like a scalp. He tries to scream but gets lost in the texture. Greasy, light, not as dark as I thought. He smells it; it’s a foreign smell. It smells good. He rubs it against his face. He puts it in his mouth.
He can no longer see the hair above his eyes. Treason. The hair that made up a small part of him is gone. The hair is not his and it is a waste to examine it. He throws it on the ash and dust gathered on his floor. He closes his eyes and sighs. At that moment he had never felt more lost.
He fell back on his bed and saw the cracks in his ceiling. He wished for it to crash down on him. He prayed for a tornado. He actually put his fists together. The tornado never came and he found himself suddenly awake. Hours had passed and the thumping in his head was more apparent. Where am I?
He saw the sunlight, it betrayed his mood. He had pulled his pants up and felt them hot, full of razors. He shed them with disregard to all pants. He stood and saw the window was open. He wanted to see outside. He was going to try a new approach. Maybe someone out there could tell him who he was. He took off his shirt and stretched out his arms.
With his head back and eyes closed he let the world examine him. He let the wind try to get at him. He let everyone in, but tried to keep himself out. He waited for days, for months, years. He held his breathe. He tried to cry. He ended up laughing.
What he wanted to see most were his eyes. People have commented on them. After his experiment with his hair, he knew that once detached, once removed, they were no longer a part of him. He opened his eyes and tried to feel them. He moved them back and forth, up and down. He made his zombie eyes. Laughter came.
That’s what he was. He knew it all along. This shell he was carrying wasn’t him. This was just a vessel. His legs, his hair his eyes, they weren’t him. He wouldn’t have to see his organs. This thought, this unexplored and relevant idea should have made him feel better.
Still he wasn’t ashamed. He still stood naked in front of the window and got a brief glimpse of enjoyment at the absurdity of what he was doing. He rubbed his head. A smile. His laughter didn’t turn to joy. Play the clown and laugh.
If it isn’t my body that makes me, what does? The idea lingered as he stepped to his desk. He saw what lay before him. Dirty dishes, things that fill his pockets, random notes about movies he wants to see. Pens, calendars, empty water bottles. Stuff and things. He smelled his watch before his attention was taken away. The bag by the door called to him.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Short Story
These Hands
Page Two
He can’t figure out why, at this moment, he feels that last night would have changed anything. There was supposed to be an asteroid. There was supposed to be a plague. There was supposed to be meaning. The red box of cigarettes gave him some meaning.
As he stood the blood fell from his head and he couldn’t see for a moment. He thought he was being transported to another planet. At 11:30 the world doesn’t look different. It is the most meaningless time of the day. As he regained his sight he saw the blank wall in front of him. Wild thoughts of spitting against it, of smearing blood. The Matisse print would have to stay. That would say something.
He grabbed his key and his water bottle and his lighter and his cigarettes and snuck out of his own bedroom. The hallway was still dark. The stairs cold. He almost tripped while shutting his eyes to avoid the bathroom mirror. This is my day, and this is how it starts.
The air was fresh as the fog rolled over the cars in front of him. A steady friend. He feels like fog, driving people inside, away, away from itself. His lighter didn’t work and for a few seconds that task occupied his mind. Exhaling, that was his first sigh of the day; it felt like his first breath. He sat with his hood on and watched the smiling walk by. They rarely say hi and are more often scared. Let them be.
He heard the electric bus roll through the stop sign and thought about the times he ran to catch it. It was more important than life at that moment. He knows it is going to happen. He steps off his stoop and lurches forward. He starts his sprint, holding his bag. This is why he likes sneakers. The bus doesn’t have to stop. At that point he gets angry at himself when he misses the bus. Not because he failed, because he cared so damn much at the time. A bus passes by dozens of times a day, I never notice.
He had wanted a cigarette and now that that was over, he didn’t want to go back inside. He thought about walking around with his slippers on. He thought about taking the bus without a wallet, without money, he smelled too clean to get away with that. As he gripped the bridge of he nose, knowing damn well that physically it doesn’t do anything for him, he smiled. He had nothing to smile about. He found everything funny. The night before was melting and with it the unrealized ambition.
He was a man coming to terms with his ununiqueness. The face he saw this time in the mirror was defiantly his. It made him angry. It usually makes him angry. Not for what he sees but the fact he will never see himself. Not as others, not even as himself. I don’t know me.
He sees things, he makes thoughts but he will never see who he is. He won’t know if the shirt he is wearing fits or not. He will never see if the double chin he perceives is real. He has seen photographs but it was never the moment. It was through a filter. It was through light reflecting caught by a camera. The anger mounts, it fills his fingertips. He makes an impotent fist.
Back in his room he rips open the blinds. He looks at the bed, his TV, his books. He looks at his hands and there is some relief. I can see you. He is a student now. He wants documents, essays, he wants experiments. All of them on his hands. Then he shoots his slippers off to look at his feet. He brings his foot up to his face.
Page Two
He can’t figure out why, at this moment, he feels that last night would have changed anything. There was supposed to be an asteroid. There was supposed to be a plague. There was supposed to be meaning. The red box of cigarettes gave him some meaning.
As he stood the blood fell from his head and he couldn’t see for a moment. He thought he was being transported to another planet. At 11:30 the world doesn’t look different. It is the most meaningless time of the day. As he regained his sight he saw the blank wall in front of him. Wild thoughts of spitting against it, of smearing blood. The Matisse print would have to stay. That would say something.
He grabbed his key and his water bottle and his lighter and his cigarettes and snuck out of his own bedroom. The hallway was still dark. The stairs cold. He almost tripped while shutting his eyes to avoid the bathroom mirror. This is my day, and this is how it starts.
The air was fresh as the fog rolled over the cars in front of him. A steady friend. He feels like fog, driving people inside, away, away from itself. His lighter didn’t work and for a few seconds that task occupied his mind. Exhaling, that was his first sigh of the day; it felt like his first breath. He sat with his hood on and watched the smiling walk by. They rarely say hi and are more often scared. Let them be.
He heard the electric bus roll through the stop sign and thought about the times he ran to catch it. It was more important than life at that moment. He knows it is going to happen. He steps off his stoop and lurches forward. He starts his sprint, holding his bag. This is why he likes sneakers. The bus doesn’t have to stop. At that point he gets angry at himself when he misses the bus. Not because he failed, because he cared so damn much at the time. A bus passes by dozens of times a day, I never notice.
He had wanted a cigarette and now that that was over, he didn’t want to go back inside. He thought about walking around with his slippers on. He thought about taking the bus without a wallet, without money, he smelled too clean to get away with that. As he gripped the bridge of he nose, knowing damn well that physically it doesn’t do anything for him, he smiled. He had nothing to smile about. He found everything funny. The night before was melting and with it the unrealized ambition.
He was a man coming to terms with his ununiqueness. The face he saw this time in the mirror was defiantly his. It made him angry. It usually makes him angry. Not for what he sees but the fact he will never see himself. Not as others, not even as himself. I don’t know me.
He sees things, he makes thoughts but he will never see who he is. He won’t know if the shirt he is wearing fits or not. He will never see if the double chin he perceives is real. He has seen photographs but it was never the moment. It was through a filter. It was through light reflecting caught by a camera. The anger mounts, it fills his fingertips. He makes an impotent fist.
Back in his room he rips open the blinds. He looks at the bed, his TV, his books. He looks at his hands and there is some relief. I can see you. He is a student now. He wants documents, essays, he wants experiments. All of them on his hands. Then he shoots his slippers off to look at his feet. He brings his foot up to his face.
I promised you a short story.
I just finished one in a fury. I feel I have just run a marathon, yet my lungs are dry. I am going to post a page a day for the next five days. It's long and I want to keep your interest. Also, due to the formatting of this compared to word some of the formatting won't come together. If you ask me nicely I can email it to you. It's raw and I mean that in every way possible. No editing other than grammar and spelling occurred. The subject matter is uncompromising. I feel it is the best thing I have set my hands to. Please, I would love feedback. Any emotional reaction would be greatly appreciated. This is my new greatest achievement.
THESE HANDS
PAGE ONE
His days are numbered. All of ours are. As he looks into the night sky, he feels powerful. He feels strong. He feels drunk. The smoke he exhales brings a new shape to the street lamp over his head. An orange cloud, that seems to linger forever in his closed eyes.
The night was long and his head hurt. He sighed through it. Pouring wave after wave of lightly colored beer. It subsides long enough for him to slam dance to a cover of The Ramones. After that “Shout.” He looks around and feels that he is jumping higher than anyone else. The tall and short people around him don’t feel the music like he does. In fact that is all he feels.
After all he hadn’t had a night out like this for a while. He let his friends buy him drinks. Shitty beer and not so bad music made up his night. He was to forget who he was, but that he never knew made it impossible. The waves of beer brought the stars closer, but that didn’t matter. He was alone in a sea of people who didn’t know his name.
He smiles and feels like he is going to cry. He hasn’t been laid in two years. He hasn’t touched a woman in months. Those around him think he has nothing but laughs boiling inside of him. At this moment he could have been anyone. He could have been a Greek god. He could have been a beggar, the one who shat on the street in front of the crowd gathered outside. He honored that beggar’s wild unabashedness. He shouted guttural noises that even he didn’t understand.
That night ended not in peril, not in joy, in mediocrity. With a flash he woke up and found himself disappointed. He was to wake up in a stranger’s bed. He was alone. He was frustrated with the man in his bed. The sunshine outside only made him angry. He rolled over but no more sleep came. His routine had woken him up.
It was the potential that made him regret where he was. The night was right. He searched his memory to find something, anything that could tip him off to how he failed. He didn’t have a goal that night but after waking up he knew that he missed a chance. Was I talking to anyone, sitting there in the booth while others danced? This question lingered.
At that moment he felt like he had been alone all his life: déjà vu of never doing anything. Regretting the nothing that he accomplished. He noticed that the night before he had changed. His wasn’t in his pants and socks and button up shirt he had worn to work and then out. His frustration comes from not knowing why he was frustrated. He looked down at the floor. A fingernail or toenail, ash, one sock. This was his life, drowning in the wood.
He heard a car drive by and understood he wasn’t alone. He was never alone. The one idea he hoped for was that he would wake up and no one would be around. He wished that he could scream anywhere he wanted. He might not be alone. The bums who cruise by shout as if they are lost at sea. What are they looking for?
Transported back to his human form he searches for his water bottle. He searches for his cigarettes. He searches for himself. Everything I have done has led to this. He collapsed back on his bed and vice gripped his eyes shut for ten seconds counting aloud. Then he sprung up and looked out the window. Everything was still he thought he made them disappear. Then a woman walked by with a dog, blue plastic bag.
THESE HANDS
PAGE ONE
His days are numbered. All of ours are. As he looks into the night sky, he feels powerful. He feels strong. He feels drunk. The smoke he exhales brings a new shape to the street lamp over his head. An orange cloud, that seems to linger forever in his closed eyes.
The night was long and his head hurt. He sighed through it. Pouring wave after wave of lightly colored beer. It subsides long enough for him to slam dance to a cover of The Ramones. After that “Shout.” He looks around and feels that he is jumping higher than anyone else. The tall and short people around him don’t feel the music like he does. In fact that is all he feels.
After all he hadn’t had a night out like this for a while. He let his friends buy him drinks. Shitty beer and not so bad music made up his night. He was to forget who he was, but that he never knew made it impossible. The waves of beer brought the stars closer, but that didn’t matter. He was alone in a sea of people who didn’t know his name.
He smiles and feels like he is going to cry. He hasn’t been laid in two years. He hasn’t touched a woman in months. Those around him think he has nothing but laughs boiling inside of him. At this moment he could have been anyone. He could have been a Greek god. He could have been a beggar, the one who shat on the street in front of the crowd gathered outside. He honored that beggar’s wild unabashedness. He shouted guttural noises that even he didn’t understand.
That night ended not in peril, not in joy, in mediocrity. With a flash he woke up and found himself disappointed. He was to wake up in a stranger’s bed. He was alone. He was frustrated with the man in his bed. The sunshine outside only made him angry. He rolled over but no more sleep came. His routine had woken him up.
It was the potential that made him regret where he was. The night was right. He searched his memory to find something, anything that could tip him off to how he failed. He didn’t have a goal that night but after waking up he knew that he missed a chance. Was I talking to anyone, sitting there in the booth while others danced? This question lingered.
At that moment he felt like he had been alone all his life: déjà vu of never doing anything. Regretting the nothing that he accomplished. He noticed that the night before he had changed. His wasn’t in his pants and socks and button up shirt he had worn to work and then out. His frustration comes from not knowing why he was frustrated. He looked down at the floor. A fingernail or toenail, ash, one sock. This was his life, drowning in the wood.
He heard a car drive by and understood he wasn’t alone. He was never alone. The one idea he hoped for was that he would wake up and no one would be around. He wished that he could scream anywhere he wanted. He might not be alone. The bums who cruise by shout as if they are lost at sea. What are they looking for?
Transported back to his human form he searches for his water bottle. He searches for his cigarettes. He searches for himself. Everything I have done has led to this. He collapsed back on his bed and vice gripped his eyes shut for ten seconds counting aloud. Then he sprung up and looked out the window. Everything was still he thought he made them disappear. Then a woman walked by with a dog, blue plastic bag.
Monday, August 9, 2010
After work
I had a few drinks. Just a spur of the moment thing, but it was fun. After that I walked to the bus stop. It's between fifth and sixth on Market, where two blocks and one night away there was a shooting. Anyway, a guy asks for some change and a hug. I gave him the change, thirty cents, but not the hug. I had to refuse him three times. He went away thanking me for the change. A few moments later, he came back with two fingers up, giving me the peace sign, or asking for a cigarette. I told him to be careful because he gave me the peace sign with his palm in. I told him it meant the middle finger in Britain. Then with a confused look he held up his middle finger.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"You want a hug?"
"Yeah." This was elongated, like I caught him in a lie.
"Sorry, I told you no."
"You'll give me change but not a hug?"
"Yup."
He walked away, this time I kept my earphone out of my ear to listen to the circus of drunks, him and the woman he was with, shout at me how they just broke up with their respective partners. He looked at me when he finished. I said that it was a match made in heaven. The older ladies, scared and possibly from out of town, laughed. I didn't like that. I meant that it was good timing. However, they thought I meant the fact that they were both drunks, or crack heads. He came back, asked for a cigarette and then tried to get his old lady to come and give me a hug. She wasn't having it. Instead he asked for a light. I gave it to him and then, not seeing the counteracting logic, he told me not to ever give anyone a light on the street.
"Never give anyone a light on the street."
"You mean like you?" I countered.
"You know why? They are all crack heads. Me I'm just a drunk." He finagled his "old lady" over to give a hug. She was in the middle of practicing her Drunken boxing style. She came over and was a little scared. Over in the bus shelter she was punching and grunting, channeling Bruce Lee. Then she came over, I shook her hand, grabbed her fist and gave it a pound, you know the way white people do when trying to seem cool. She left and sat down, perhaps humbled, perhaps tired, perhaps ready to pass out. Nope. As the man was talking to me she yelled. "You keep saying the same shit over again."
"This guy needs a hug. I like his vibe." Well, he never gave me a hug. As the bus approached I saluted him, wished him well in my mind and found my way to the 21. I got on the bus and opened my book...
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"You want a hug?"
"Yeah." This was elongated, like I caught him in a lie.
"Sorry, I told you no."
"You'll give me change but not a hug?"
"Yup."
He walked away, this time I kept my earphone out of my ear to listen to the circus of drunks, him and the woman he was with, shout at me how they just broke up with their respective partners. He looked at me when he finished. I said that it was a match made in heaven. The older ladies, scared and possibly from out of town, laughed. I didn't like that. I meant that it was good timing. However, they thought I meant the fact that they were both drunks, or crack heads. He came back, asked for a cigarette and then tried to get his old lady to come and give me a hug. She wasn't having it. Instead he asked for a light. I gave it to him and then, not seeing the counteracting logic, he told me not to ever give anyone a light on the street.
"Never give anyone a light on the street."
"You mean like you?" I countered.
"You know why? They are all crack heads. Me I'm just a drunk." He finagled his "old lady" over to give a hug. She was in the middle of practicing her Drunken boxing style. She came over and was a little scared. Over in the bus shelter she was punching and grunting, channeling Bruce Lee. Then she came over, I shook her hand, grabbed her fist and gave it a pound, you know the way white people do when trying to seem cool. She left and sat down, perhaps humbled, perhaps tired, perhaps ready to pass out. Nope. As the man was talking to me she yelled. "You keep saying the same shit over again."
"This guy needs a hug. I like his vibe." Well, he never gave me a hug. As the bus approached I saluted him, wished him well in my mind and found my way to the 21. I got on the bus and opened my book...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
What a beautiful weekend
I had. I haven't done much the past two days but sit in my cave and watch movies/TV. And you know what, I can't complain. I used to think that if I didn't do anything that meant I was a loser or a loner, but I'm not worried about that anymore. I'm not a loser, and no one can say that about me other than me, well maybe Neil, the Unicorn in the corner, but he's just mad because he broke up with his girlfriend. Such a strange roommate. Anyway.
My fingers and my mind have been itching for a while now. I need to do something creative. I helped a friend out with an essay and the simple fact that I was typing on a keyboard lent some satisfaction to me. So I thought I would keep going and write this. I think one of the reasons I feel so stagnant in my job is because I don't have anything creative to do. I know this system too well, or at least the curriculum. So this may be a subtle warning to the students, I might be doing things differently, but bear with me. Everything will be alright. Just take deep breaths. Close your eyes and this will all be over soon. I don't really anticipate any sort of reaction but I just want to prepare for the worst. I know I am far from being the perfect teacher, yet I think that if I could inject some variety into my classroom, I might be able to stay a little sane.
It will allow me to clean out the algae, the dead fish and let the water flow free. Also, I haven't written a short story in months. I find sparks of openings or endings, but something tells me to forget them. I don't like that. I want to try everything. That's it, I am going to write a short story this week. And guess what you have/get to read it. I know I started one on here a while ago, but I left that one alone for now. This will be amazing. It will drop your jaw and make you fall in love with 12 point font.
Ok, I don't have any idea about this story and I might be overhyping it a little but, but, confidence rarely hurts, if it's done right. Uh huh, Neil agrees with me.
(The picture is what I looked like while writing this. Neil's pissed he's not in the photo, but that is what happens when you don't contribute. No credit)
Take care beautiful people (I am talking to all of you, just in case you have self esteem issues)
My fingers and my mind have been itching for a while now. I need to do something creative. I helped a friend out with an essay and the simple fact that I was typing on a keyboard lent some satisfaction to me. So I thought I would keep going and write this. I think one of the reasons I feel so stagnant in my job is because I don't have anything creative to do. I know this system too well, or at least the curriculum. So this may be a subtle warning to the students, I might be doing things differently, but bear with me. Everything will be alright. Just take deep breaths. Close your eyes and this will all be over soon. I don't really anticipate any sort of reaction but I just want to prepare for the worst. I know I am far from being the perfect teacher, yet I think that if I could inject some variety into my classroom, I might be able to stay a little sane.
It will allow me to clean out the algae, the dead fish and let the water flow free. Also, I haven't written a short story in months. I find sparks of openings or endings, but something tells me to forget them. I don't like that. I want to try everything. That's it, I am going to write a short story this week. And guess what you have/get to read it. I know I started one on here a while ago, but I left that one alone for now. This will be amazing. It will drop your jaw and make you fall in love with 12 point font.
Ok, I don't have any idea about this story and I might be overhyping it a little but, but, confidence rarely hurts, if it's done right. Uh huh, Neil agrees with me.
(The picture is what I looked like while writing this. Neil's pissed he's not in the photo, but that is what happens when you don't contribute. No credit)
Take care beautiful people (I am talking to all of you, just in case you have self esteem issues)
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