visited *loading* times
red bricks fade. crumble to lower downtown parking lots. slow for traffic light, open sunroof. man on bike pedals past as dusk sets. light. green, in gear. left. travel uptown past carriages. too happy tourists, wearing shorts. ultraman, speakers to early fall air. casual melodic aggression. pass customs house and 'for rent' sign.
pass christian bookstore with an empty parking lot and glance at closed bridge 2 blocks over. pass strip club with full parking lot. buckle of the bible belt. righteous bumper stickers and sunday mornings. homeless man saunters, girl on moped smiles. cross highway, weave through traffic, caffeinated.
look for parking, waste minutes that seem like hours. get to coco, line, patience, talk to todd. order italian cream soda and hummus. outside, dirty painted red cement, peeling. ferns, vines, flowers and music that's too loud. harass a new friend online. a girl who is too young, too tan and too skinny asks what i drink. tell her, but see this will lead to trouble. resume writing. punk rocks boys walk past. girl with a shaved head, a heavy chain and chuck taylors. guitar heavier, drums pounding, insistent. it's 70 degrees, darkness beings to fall. time for the next stop.
"what a swank place," monica says as we walk into the building's foyer. and it is. gleaming granite floors. the front desk is wood, in the old style. but it's maple not walnut like a swiss chalet.
"posh, that's what it is," her friend says.
"pish posh who gives a fuck?" i say, smiling. teeth. "let's find this place."
"can i help you?" the guy at the desk. make him for an asshole, but sometimes i'm too judgmental. working on that. you know, lately.
"yes, ummm...benton. we're looking for benton," monica says. sweet, suggestive, seductive. eyes gleam and beam. "i think they're on like the 53rd floor."
"54th floor" the guy corrects her, but in a more helpful tone. he's definitely an asshole. monica, fucking monica gets them every time. "they're in suite c. you take a left out of the elevator, and it'll be right there," he's fading. "on the left."
"thank you," she says. winks. disgusting. walk, hit the elevator. press the button. 54. it's bright in here. monica wears a black vera wang dress. her friend, someone she met in a club last weekend. i think she knows her from before. i hope she's cool. she wears jeans, a t-shirt and she's got a kate spade handbag. i fucking love kate spade. eyes go dark, elevator opens. out, left, door, c. open. in. we're in.
people talk, wine poured.
"grab a glass," the host says. i do. then another. ok, we're talking, having a good time.
"most of these people are actually good looking. better than that lame ass party. you know that one a couple weeks ago?" monica says as she struts by with that runway strut as i talk to some blonde. the blonde works for a magazine or something. whatever. i need a drink. my eyes flip open, scan for the bar. through the crowd, sound. a bottle pours, ice slushes. maneuver, order. drink. one for the road.
a girl comes up to me and says she knows me from somewhere.
"weren't you at that party like a couple weeks ago? out in the country?" she insists. slovenly drunk. a redhead, a little too hot for my taste.
"yes," i agree. "there were a lot of good looking people at that party." the way i say it, i almost believe it. for a moment. smile, teeth. "careful with those razors," silently. the drive is coming. like a freight train, un-fucking stoppable. can't wait much longer. contemplate the redhead briefly, like taking her to the bathroom, or a closet, a bedroom. under the sink. where the fuck is monica? we didn't plan this too well. she had her friend, hillary, or something. anyway, i wasn't sure if she was cool, and it didn't really come up. but now, i can't fucking wait. my teeth grind. the noise, a rhythm now as they work and work. the redhead explains that she works in an art gallery while she gets her master's. nyu girl. not slutty enough to be columbia.
where's monica?
"hey stranger," familiar. behind, monica. "getting hungry yet? who's your friend?"
"this is, ummm jessica" it comes out more like a question than an introduction. "she goes to nyu."
"how'd you know?" jessica squeaks. "i didn't tell you."
i can't fucking wait to get away from this broad, and monica sees it. enjoys it.
change course. "i'm hungry, famished," i say. "you want to eat here? or take out?"
"oh let's eat here," monica. smiles. fucking monica.
"all right, let's do it."
monica grabs jessica. we look now, intercept hillary. find a room, find a room. heart pounds, ears hear a napkin hitting a trashbag. "look at this," monica smiles like a realtor, opening the door. a bedroom. four walk in.
monica gets coke from hillary who gets it from her kate spade bag that i fucking love. she pours it out. cuts it up. "jessica?" she offers a straw, platinum.
hillary closes the door. "she is cool. or paranoid?" i think.
jessica bends over to do the line and it's a little big and the shit is really fucking good. monica bends over to whisper in jessica's ear.
she unloads. blood. everywhere. instant. i'm all over the other side of the redhead's neck. it's only been a few seconds. beautiful. like heroin and a '61 haut brion rolled into one. not perfect, redheads they burn too fucking hot. that alcohol, alkaline burn.
hillary tries to light a cigarette, her lighter's on the fritz. she sighs, opens up her kate spade bag and digs for matches.
streetlights split midnight sky. peer into mirror. nothing. review my newest spanish phrase, 'outta my way, fucker.' smile. sounds better in spanish. most things do.
propelled by appetites unquenched. maneuver, merge, accelerate, 5th gear. sunroof open, windows down. spanish music and static give way to break beat.
tonight a girl wore grey under black. well done, a classic combination.
i found myself distracted. distance burns the palate like carmelized sugar on skin, only hotter. sugar clings like napalm. searing. a good brulee torch fires over 2500 degrees. mostly a blur, looking back to the rear view now.
a sea of cocaine. all night binges lasting days into weeks, only chemically induced sleep interlaced at points of resistance. steady downward dive. haven't touched the stuff in 10 years.
like to think i was noble in some deranged way. like cary grant to ingrid bergman in 'notorious.' you know, push away the one you love most, to prevent them from being a part of a deranged little world. maybe i was just an asshole. honestly i don't remember.
only thing i recall is waking up one morning at her apartment. overnight, it snowed. and snowed. and snowed. by morning, my car and everything else was buried in 3 feet of powder. the most peace i can remember. better than the stuff called 'the scorpion' we scored down in mexico. it was the best snow ever. only hope it's cool enough to ease that burning feeling now.
dead end
a most sincere hope is that friends find happiness. youth's greatest folly is the failure to appreciate a good woman. broken hearts send bills, even if they take years to arrive. interest accrues, and each youthful spontaneity, lucid or otherwise, presents an exponential whiplash when it finally comes.
these thoughts plague me as i drive through a barren, post midnight city. presents and gifts and material goods tantamount to nothingness.
and yet, a good cup of coffee. a sunset with three or more colors. poised in the mountains, or oceanside.
there is hope.
and in the end, is that not what keeps us alive?
summer nights circle wagons 'round boiler room days. friends arrive, fridge opens, beer removed. fresh tomatoes to fiery salsa, lime juice drips from chips. dragon tattoo with girl in tow, twists silently to thievery corporation 'lebanese blonde.'
friends leave to shoot pool. stay in, tonight. wait for things to unfold. a friend calls, from a mall. a new one, not open yet. just married. assimilated to the world of mall sleuthing. a future in corporate espionage. offer gifts from amsterdam. he mumbles nonsense about looking for a new job, marital slang for shackles buckled too tight.
friends return from pool hall, shortly. 'that place was lame,' they claim. 7 bars within a mile or two of my house, including a lesbian joint. with so many choices, why hit a place known for jock itch, high heels and future mary kay clients?
pureed san marzano tomatoes make vodka sauce. a kitchen breathes, alive with garlic and extra virgin olive oil. sauce simmers, a wine bottle popped, parmesano reggiano over pasta and drunken friends become once again full.
red, the color of ambition. dark midnight shadows replaced by fiery greens as treetops absorb dawn.
buenos aires, a few more months. what jimmy's up to? get that email address today.
should've bought gold this morning, unfocused by dark locks and blue dream eyes. ahh, but too cool a pool to swim in. people get colder, the world warmer.
sunroof open, windows down. sweltering. july sun burns as the ides of march dissipate to a steaming bread loaf southern summer. clothing and skin become one, moss to a tree.
a floor, streamlined wood. toasty coffee and espresso fill my nostrils. neurons fire, reluctantly. the rescue crew frothing a simple meter away. a serious brunette scowls at her laptop. she looks angry, a turn on. order a triple latte, a pastry. red house painters play through speakers. quick smile of a familiar song, then, more directly, the pain. a stapler for my heart? no? i bounce.
later, dinner with friends. a sun falls hopelessly out of the southern sky. chatter and laughter and it's all on the outside and darkness blankets. familiar shadows and prayers for rest return.
home
kristi lives in a house that is too big. she married him for his matinee good looks, but the months and years have driven a wedge. the space inside, the space within. growing. nebulous.
europe is coming soon. she had not yet begun packing, or even planning. she just considered it, idyllic. "it will be nice to get away." she drank, sometimes in the morning, sometimes not at all. it was part of the yin and yang. never fall too deep into anything. she'd already learned that lesson in love.
rome
kristi sat at the cafe thinking what a nice black and white photo it would make. the sidewalk, people on the street, motorbikes. a cab sprayed diesel exhaust into the air as it sped by, faster than the others. her camera was at the hotel. she was in a mood, but not a picture taking mood.
she talked to jimmy last night. he seemed more distant than the cable spanning the atlantic. apparently global warming had no effect on him, she thought. his questions seemed calculated, and only in response to her lead, "i miss you too kristi." ice, crystallizing just underneath the surface. she didn't sleep well.
espresso soothed her nerves and the burning in her eyelids began to subside. she lit a cigarette. she didn't smoke back home. but the pack of gitanes called out to her at the little store. they reminded her of college. simpler times. she looked briefly down at her ellen tracy trousers, admiring them. she looked up, a gentle breeze rekindling her consciousness of the moment.
a man was walking toward her. well not her in particular, but up the wide sidewalk toward the small scattering of tables, streetside. he was handsome, in an awkward but classic way. dark hair, longer than an american's but not ponytail gross long. he looked a bit uncomfortable and ill at odds with himself. he had a strong jawbone. dark navy button up, khaki chinos, summer shoes. they looked italian, she thought, then smiled. well, of course they are dummy.
before she knew what was happening, she said "excuse me," in english. then in clumsy italian. "can you tell me..."
"oh fuck it," she thought to herself. picking up again in english. "can you tell me where the museo e galleria borghese is?"
"galleria borghese?" his voice a mixture of alarm and warmth. "yes," now smiling. he had a nice smile. you are not close."
"how far is it? can you tell me how to get there?" now embarrassed at his english, or rather her lack of italian. this is his country, after all. how dreadfully inappropriate. how......american. then, her eyes flashed at him, if only briefly. you know that look from an attractive woman that disarms a man?
"i'm guglielmo."
"kristi. i'm gonna call you g. you want some coffee?"
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