Posts tagged as “Story”

It was Spring after a long, cold, dark winter, so I never noticed when the apartment across the hall from me was filled.  January and February had been particularly cruel and I spent most of it inside, alone.  I’m not entirely sure how it was that I missed something as noisy and drawn out as someone moving in.  I guess I was asleep that day.  Or hung over.  Or drunk.  Or something.  It didn’t matter.  The point I’m trying to convey is that it was March (or was it April?) before I discovered that the apartment across from me, long vacant since the old woman who previously lived there disappeared, she must have died, was filled by someone new.  New blood in my apartment building was refreshing.  A nice change from the old ladies who live here on pitifully tiny rents their sons pay for them.  They were nice, but quiet and shy.  A little fire never hurt.  

I was coming up the stairs from somewhere, the liquor store around the corner probably, cradling a fifth of Turkey in my jacket pocket.  I like Jim Beam, but when a man is faced with the prospect of nothing to drink versus something to drink of maybe not the exact preferred brand, then he has an easy decision to make.  I was going up the stairs with my Turkey, when beside me I noticed a tall, soft Asian boy, maybe 21, dressed nicely I guessed.  He smelled like a woman without a doubt.  I never trusted a man who smelled like anything other than a man, but this kid looked harmless enough.  He looked at me like I was the boogie man.  It’s not good to be scared of neighbors.

“You live here long?” I asked him.

“Oh, no, we just, uh, moved in, like, maybe two months ago?” he said.  Light in the loafers, this kid for sure.  Definitely light in the loafers.

“This wine is terrible,” I said.

“No, it’s fine,” Donny said.

“You can’t taste.  This is swill.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“This wine is terrible.  Waiter!  Waiter!  This wine is terrible.  I demand another bottle.”

“But sir, you’ve drunk most of it already and…”

“Are you calling me a goddamned liar?  Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, sir, it’s just that…”

“Just drop it, Phil,” Donny said.

“You will bring us another bottle, young man, or I will speak to your manager.”

When he woke this morning with the sun in his eyes he knew that today would be a fruitful one for him, for his art.  His guitar tuned, his song rehearsed, he was going to sing his poet’s heart out for the people on the downtown C local train.  Their souls would lift and swell and fly like an eruption of butterflies from the end of a rainbow when they heard his uplifting words, delicate fingering of his instrument, and unique take on “Lean On Me.”  He closed his eyes as the train approached the platform and imagined their admiring faces beaming with the pleasure he’d brought into their day.  Singing was never for the money; it was always for the love.  Always for the heart.

A Mexican girl on the subway flitted through inexpertly taken photos of herself on her little red camera as she stood in front of a taxi cab in her ill-fitting black dress, her features erased by overpowering flash.  A child stared out the window as the train passed over the bridge, the city glowing indistinctly in the distance, hazy, uncertain.  A sleeping man’s head bobbed as the train shook but failed to wake him.  Something was eating away at my stomach, a memory trying to push its way through, a half forgotten shame that I felt but did not recall, and my mouth tasted like cigarettes and wine.  

The descending major third told me that it was time to get off the train out into the night sky sickly orange with failing street lights.  I told a man I did not have any money for him.  A dog barked in the distance.  I felt my pockets to make sure I had my wallet, my phone, my keys.  I checked my phone for messages, but there were none.  I realized I was hungry but there was no money in my wallet and no food at home.  My hands ached.  One eye was blurry and I thought I should clean my lenses in boston rewetting drops when I got home.  Couples were sitting at tables in front of a restaurant chatting merrily, eating, loving each other, a rise in their cheeks a prelude.  One woman made eye contact with me and quickly turned away.  I told her I was sorry.  She didn’t reply.

Is it wrong to feel so little when so many people are mourning?  If it had been me, would these people be feeling the same things?  Would it be fewer people balling their eyes out?  More?  None at all?  If the tables were turned, as they say, and I was the one laying in the casket, grisly, grey, dead, would anyone care at all?  Would they be glad to have Arturo back?  I suppose they would never have known if I was the one up there and he was sitting here, but would they trade me for him?  Many of them seem like they would give anything, anything at all, to have their precious, handsome, gifted, kind, loving, wonderful Arturo back.  Well, he’s not coming back, guys, so get used to it.

Look.

This is a process.

I know that.  I understand that.  This is all about letting go, about learning about myself.  

I’ve lived for a long time in not exactly the healthiest manner, but everyone makes mistakes, right?  I mean, you’ve made mistakes before, right?  Don’t answer.  Everyone has.  It’s really ok.  This is about me, not you.  Well, it’s about you, but to a lesser extent.  You’re incidental.  I’m the main character here.  Don’t worry.  Everyone has to have supporting roles once in a while.

God damn, this feels really good.  No, no.  This feels great.  Talking about this after so long, after so much deception is like taking your jacket off when you get home on one of those autumn days that is much too warm for a jacket but you’ve worn it all day and you’re sweaty but your hands are full and you can just hold the damn thing right now and you’re suffocating because you didn’t check the weather before leaving the house.  Or, you know, like lifting a weight, but that’s boring.

Have you ever had a moment when you felt quite as alive as I feel right now?

Dust settled on my jacket while I waited for the Mexicans in the rocks on either side of the pass to put away their rifles.  They thought I couldn’t see them, and I couldn’t.  That didn’t stop me from knowing they were there, rifles trained on me, sweat on their brows, finger twitching with fear on the trigger, one false move away from oblivion.  My horse swayed and stepped uneasily beneath me.  He sensed that something was wrong, but how could I convince him that 6 untrained Mexican farm boys hiding in the rocks with second-hand rifles pointed at me were no match?  He would just have to wait until the smoke cleared.  Or the paunchy middle aged man who seemed to be their leader came to his senses and called off his boys.  I didn’t mind spilling some blood that day, but it would slow me down and I needed to be on my way.  Someone was expecting me, and she wouldn’t take kindly to being made to wait.  Men had died for less.

My hands held the reins, my rifle strapped to the side of the horse, my pistols in their belt.  None of them were loaded.  No need to carry the extra weight.