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fiction.
as i drive down west end, i see 2 people almost get run over in less than 1 block. the first is a cabbie in a minivan pulling out of a parking lot. the pedestrian starts yelling at the driver. the driver takes off. 150 meters down the road an expedition nearly hits an old man crossing the street with his son. the suv doesn't stop, forcing the old man to clear out or face the consequences.
i continue down west end. wrvu playing techno. i am totally jamming, high off the near death i have just witnessed. i see a black doorman in a blazer step outside an office building with a strobe light.
i pull into the saucer and there are people just wasted scattered across the parking lot. drunken, swerving human pylons. i park and get out.
inside up to the bar. order a hefe, sit next to a kid with a square, chiseled jawbone, probably 21. he's 23. another kid comes up to the bar totally wasted with a $20 in his hand. this is gonna be a great night, he says. oh yeah? i say. he says she's 37 and i'm 22. fifteen fucking years. his speech is slurred. he tells me it is going to make a great frat house story. he leaves throwing tip money all over the bar, mumbling something about how she's paying and drinking the beer because the tap looks cool. the tap has a picture of the grim reaper.
the kid and i sit and watch espn. not saying anything, drinking. i ask him for a cigarette. we watch espn, smoke, drink, talk football, talk shit. i get his number so we can do this again sometime and i leave. he says he'll be back tomorrow.
i cruise to sherlock holmes. a dozen people inside and none of them under 50. i turn around and walk out.
i drive to 12th. rock and roll scene. dark, like a dungeon. there are 8 vases sitting on top of the overhang. didn't anybody ever tell them that patterns should be in odd numbers? i get a becks. it tastes like shit after the beers at the saucer. a pretty tan blonde girl with a white top that doesn't reach her waste and jeans that don't either says something i don't understand. the bartender obsessive-compulsively fidgets with the volume knob on the stereo for every song. this place is weird. i settle up, pay with the card. another bartender says save your cash for the drug dealers. i leave. i contemplate going to excess for afterhours...
fiction.
fog. i stagger into the bathroom. i look at myself in the mirror briefly after relieving myself. i try not to focus too hard, just making sure the head and neck are still attached. everything looks well, normal. don't focus too hard. keep moving, i shuffle into the office, check email and see what the world has in store today.
someone wants to sell me a bigger penis, some tits, a diploma. with an email address and a couple bucks, i can turn a basketball into a banker inside of a week with the modern day miracle of overnight shipping. i did receive some email about the site. people wondering if i am gay. wondering if i am doing a lot of coke again. i go to the fridge and get some juice. i dump some down my throat in an effort to regain that feeling that i am a part of the human race. i swallow. the twisted dry abyss below is forever grateful...
i look at the clock. i feel like it's early, but objectively it most certainly is not. i can think of only one thing. i try to build inertia by focusing on steaming espresso and frothy milk. caffeine. i pull some jeans from the floor, throw on a t-shirt. brush teeth. keep moving. i grab keys, a wallet and keep moving. moving. lock the door, down 5 flights out to the street.
i get some strange looks and some vacant stares past me as i walk into the coffee shop. the girl in front of me has a nose ring and an eye brow ring. some kind of tattoo on her forearm. i guess i probably would find her attractive sans tattoo. i tell the guy behind the bar that i want cappucino, a double. i look at the cover of the times while i wait for the drink. none of the news is good. i see the scene paper and decide to pick it up instead. maybe there is something going on tonight. somewhere. you can walk up to the bar and order a drink. the girl from the bakery or perhaps her scandinavian cousin will sit down at the stool next to you. the guy calls my drink name loudly, probably not for the first time, maybe not even the second. i thank him and look for a place to park and get some coffee to my poor shriveled, misshapen brain. the steaming drink warms my fingers through the paper cup. this is somehow reassuring to the body. help is on the way. don't worry. we're coming.
fiction.
she's going to call tonight i say aloud and to myself as i finish climbing the stairs and open the door to my apartment. the hinges spring the door closed, echoing against the hardwood floor and nine foot plaster ceiling. i check voicemail even though the readout says there are no messages. sometimes the thing malfunctions, so just to be safe. she hasn't called, well, not yet. ok i'll work on the website for a while. a couple hours later, still no call, and i realize i am hungry. what to make? don't want anything too complicated. want to stay focused, but need sustenance in order to continue working on the site. no garbage tv dinner and not going to waste time and money ordering out, so i whip up a chicken breast in the skillet use some fresh rosemary from the market and the chicken stock in the freezer, throw in some white bordeaux from a few nights ago and voila we are in business. ok now that that's out of the way...
still no call. probably got a lot of things with her life that are way more important. fuck it. put on some beth orton. her voice soothes. my sadness is nothing compared to hers. yet she has some damn pixie-like edge that indicates that, well, someday it's going to be ok. you know, after the fucked up period that is right now. walk to the kitchen. a strange yellow light pours out as i open the door and pull out a good german beer from the fridge. i walk back to the office to continue working on the site. now where was i? oliver calls. i turn the music down, not all the way. what's up, he says. just got done eating dinner, i say, drinking a beer. are you going out tonight or what, he asks. i say nothing but continue to sip on the beer. oliver continues. probably going to roll down to the basement first and then over to 12th and then basically see what happens, maybe hit the red door. you coming? he demands. the question is a jab like a boxer. not connecting hard, but felt nevertheless. i contemplate briefly but decide against it. no i'm gonna call the girl from the bakery. ok dude, but you're fucking crazy. i was at 12th the other night, it was sick how many fine looking... oliver's voice is fading in and out on his cell phone. my beer is perspiring, i swig generously off of it in an attempt to put it out of its misery. he is muttering something about a band, schwing, schwang, fung or something. i think somebody's at the door, i tell him. i'll call you later, i say. he's still talking i think as i hit end on my phone. the pad stays lit for a few seconds after the staticy voice is silenced.
somehow i feel satisfied turning oliver down. a torrid night of overconsumption in a desperate attempt to find someone to screw is more than i can deal with right now. we would end up at tribe or some other gay bar with two good looking people and a bunch of scaries. a horde of people looking to score some coke. it's only thursday. another rewarding gulp of beer. it continues to perspire, but not as heavily. perhaps it is relieved as well, knowing its end is near.
i make some real progress not noticing the silence coming from the phone laying on the desk. i return to the kitchen. a blast of freon infused air, bathed in yellow light yields another beer somewhere along the way. fall is here, and i opened the windows earlier this year. i am grateful that tomorrow is friday. maybe tomorrow i will run into the girl from the bakery again. just plain enough to not think she's beautiful, but definitely pretty. shy, intelligent. good set of shoulders. very important. the way a woman's neck and shoulders intersect is very sexy. nice ass too. just big enough to know that it's there, but not so big that you wish it would go away.
This is not an exit. bret easton ellis
kim is thinking about resigning. helping her with the resume was enough.
jason helped me find info on how to blog which was helpful and of course funny.
we call him the phone nazi. i'll get you yet. i'll get you yet...
helped kim with her resume today. a million things i'm behind on, but it was great helping her. we all need a new job. the market is tough right now.
watching a lot of soccer lately. i've managed to figure out what a hat-trick is. soccer somehow seems less commercial than football, maybe because it has less commercials? or are the players more civilized?
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