Tuesday around 3:07 passed noon…
I find myself leaning James Dean style (or was it Bob Dylan) against a brick wall in the shallow way that calls itself the alley between my stack of apartments and the next, looking forward to a street where I can still smell the rolling rubber and lingering diesel of the UPS truck that didn’t bring a package for me today. I’m not expecting one, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate for one to show up ringing my doorbell. No, today I’m more contemplating friendships and forward motions and the status of myself as a participant in the neverending worry of success vs. stagnation and trying to figure out which panel of acclaimed judges will get to decide these types of things.
I’ve spent the last week as a commando in the GI Joe army, doing what I could to convince my leader (and son), General Tristan Bulleteyes, that we might do better to serve our country by throwing a birthday party for Cobra Commander rather than try the same-old-same-old tactics. “He always gets away,” I remind him.
“Maybe in the show he does, but if we had him, he wouldn’t.” I have to laugh a bit before excusing myself from the fun.
I’ve spent the last week sitting on the sad excuse for a porch (it’s more of a stoop, really) drinking beers until just before the sun pulls in, talking to good friends about all of the things you never remember to mention when you’re sober, all of the impending important world events or life-altering (mostly self-) imposed circumstances that, when 2000 calories worth of alcohol and $7.50 in cigarettes into the night, you realize just need to be stated with all of the passion your slurred tongue can generate.
I’ve spent the last week tip toeing around my girlfriend making sure not too shatter any glass save it might get mixed in with the eggshells I seem to have her walking on and just waiting for us both to clean up our messes and get on with our usual routine of big smiles and long walks through our various life beaches.
And now, working when I can find the time, I’m leaning Bob Dylan-style (or was it the Fonz) against this old brick alleyway, realizing that I can’t recall if I even took a hit of this afternoon cigarette or if it’s just been burning away unfulfilled, here, in my fingers.
Up Next: Humor Resonates in the Belly