Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Tee Time

There were times when I wanted to reach out and help and there times when I wanted nothing more than destruction. I could feel him creeping towards the door, one ear up against it with the other paying close attention to the air behind him. He stood there, like a defective Greek statue in misaligned contrapposto, working his shaking fingers at the keyhole. He thought he was being clever when I knew what he had been up too all along. I let him muddle around for a bit until he could compose himself. I sat there, drinking my tea and staring at the rings of residue that had built up after countless cups of the same drink. I was almost sick of it by then but I continued on. By now, I had learned to like the taste of the bitter leaves and the sour astringency that lapped my tongue. I licked the bottom of my incisors to see if they were still sharp. There was a bit of that night’s steak left in-between the gums, the blood still flavorful and packed with salinity. I smiled a salacious grin.

What seemed like years and months were only hours, or minutes. I couldn’t really remember because I was so damn busy with other things to do. Sitting, primarily. Waiting, too. Watching the clock, counting the stars, monitoring the movement of clouds. I once tried counting the lines of the wood floor below me while the fellow put on a magician’s show and slapped cards down from an incomplete deck. I could hear him picking them back up outside my door.

Someone walked by, I could hear it, and went up the stairs. For a moment it grew silent, which confused me greatly. But before I could panic or even forget to refill my cup, he was back at it again. The tension is really what got to me; I often felt like I needed to just go for a run. So I did. I hopped right up, threw on my shoes and headed out the door. I almost forgot to say ‘Hello’ on my way out the door. Maybe he was hard to notice? I was probably too enamored with my own agenda. That tended to happen quite often.

By the time I came back from the run - coated in a thin layer of asphalt, mucky toxins and a mind full of lactic acid – I decided to vomit all over his fucking face. I apologized, sincerely, but couldn’t bring myself to find a towel for the dear cad. I think I forgot to go to the Laundromat this past week? Or was that last month? I forgot the last time I threw down a few coins for a good spin and cycle. Hot or cold, it’s all gold.

As I sat down and scribbled a bit on a torn sheet of paper I found in the trash can, I remembered to check something off. Check. Step One: Done. But what about Step Two? I still wanted to help and reach out, but by now look where the problem was? No longer was it at the same spot, muddling with the keys, sweating out the dirt and stepping on my doormat. It was farther downstairs, around the corner, behind the door, in the room and on the bed. I couldn’t hear much – they were probably about 2 or 3 flights down (depending on the time of day) – and never really opened the door when I knocked. But this time I didn’t even need to knock; it sort of just permeated through the air, up the stairs, over the bunch and into my own room. I heard it, but couldn’t really do much. I had to take a shower, sing some tunes to myself and remember not to drop the soap. Speaking of soap, I could use some. Too many showers alone in this square to entertain myself lately; I liked to stay clean. Fuck. Maybe I should go get some more towels also – or at least do the laundry.

1 comment:

JAY said...

Le monde est mal fait.

Do your laundry, boy. (Although fucking séchoirs are the biggest rip off ever.)