other people you meet
I met a girl recently. She is beautiful in that in-your-face way and also somewhat empty, which is opportune for me, since I am both ugly and fulfilling. We have plenty sex and a few things else. She uses me, really. I gaze into her eyes. I say funny things from time to time. She says, you think you're so smart. I say, I try not to think about it. Look at me! I'm talking about scary black caimans, a short film by Louis Malle, underground tunnels, etc., etc., sit back, don't speak, watch as I attribute my most wonderful thoughts to you! "Surely, you must have noticed ... " But not always, not restrictively, some nicely crafted dialogue! I perform this exchange unconsciously, this elliptical etcetera to a lengthy T. I generate her remarks quite fittingly. It's never dull with me at the helm! I steer a spinning, flying machine, and it's all helicopter without the propeller. We make the sort of time together that seems filled with joys and years, and so in a few days time we conclude that we have been long enough alone. I am thus lured to where she coexists with others, none that I bargained for, and she leaves me in a room with some people, her people. These are people that I would probably never willingly approach on my own, neither for money nor ... unarmed. Just kidding. I'm liable to approach anyone. Besides, they are just some guys, not scary in a threatening way, but almost to that frightening point of unappealing. They are so immersed in their own habits that, at first sight, it would be foolish to think that they would ever alter their roughly honed selves for the sake of being social, not for the slightest formality; they acknowledge no intrusion. She goes off for a time with a group of girls that I suppose to be the lovers of these guys who, with the offer of a stiff chair, have become my sudden company. Hopefully, I think to myself, she will talk about what a catch I am, how worthy a companion, that is, to counter the now predictable accusations of my being too strange, too confident, thereby full of myself, or unattractive. How did I sneak into their circle? I tend to inspire those sorts of remarks in friends of friends. Women, right? Women! Where would I be without friends of friends?? Well, I shouldn't really condemn these girls as mere accessories of the guys with whom I've been abandoned, because they might have the good fortune of being single or sisters or casual friends, but --in coarse observation-- I notice that each of these women is as attractive as mine, the one I came with, not more, but in the same way, and I should say, they appear prone to having the same bad taste in men, us sitting there, and for an avalanche of seconds, I feel that I am truly one with the rest of them, no different, and that we are all the same kind of sucker for a similar look. It occurs to me suddenly that beautiful women are brash equalizers and what exactly am I doing in this waiting room, this GAS CHAMBER?? Anyway, I try my best to belong, if only for a half hour, God willing, I pray for brevity and prompt release. I worry about it being too long, so time takes the form of a mustard gas, my faith decreasing exponentially (x*10-99). I am consumed by this quick plunging formula, that sharp superscript of hopelessness. These men are comfortable, they already belong here, they scratch themselves and breathe freely like they belong, and any of their words, should they relinquish speech, will linger and thrive just fine in this, their space, and more than survive; their words ease straight into some pampered habitat. My words don't stand a chance, so I resort to speaking as they do, speaking words, yes, but words that belong to their space, words from my mouth to a solid spittoon.
I talk without much purpose, but I fill the air as artists feel compelled to do. I note peculiarities in them to pass the time. They light each others' cigarettes. Their exchange of movements is singular. There are no words between what occurs. One slips a cigarette out of the box, another retrieves a spark from his pocket, and the cigarette is lit, the smoke is inhaled, in the same brief second, with no remarkable awkwardness or hesitation. I'm accustomed to seeing at least a minor pause of miscontrol, an errant look, some failed dexterity. There is none. I witness a second act of smooth operation. The burly type --it's unnecessary that we consider him a brute-- asks the other for a piece of gum, not a stick of gum, but those small white pills you punch out of plastic and foil. This movement is quicker than the one before and far more personal. A pair of pinched fingers lays the gum directly on the other's tongue, and if I'm not mistaken, there is enough extra contact to make this gift unsanitary. What's worse, the happy tongue grotesquely curls, from the tip backward, in a slow curve, to receive the gum, which it hugs triumphantly, before the pair disappear into the actively chewing mouth. Of course, it wasn't a slow curve, but there is an abolishment of time in the feeling of surprise or nausea.
They debate about which is harder, the skulls of men or that of a particular dog. They talk about their fish. Apparently, they own a species of fighting fish--or perhaps they train normal fish for combat. They talk about staring at the respective tanks for hours, waiting for the business, the thin ribbons of red, the shredded fins. One becomes annoyed that the other wants to set up a match too soon. His fish are not yet ready, they are still too small. The challenger knows this, ignores this particular, and repeats a series of offers and compromises. He looks at me as if to extract my opinion. His eyes are filled with persuasion and a faint interest in blood.
I talk without much purpose, but I fill the air as artists feel compelled to do. I note peculiarities in them to pass the time. They light each others' cigarettes. Their exchange of movements is singular. There are no words between what occurs. One slips a cigarette out of the box, another retrieves a spark from his pocket, and the cigarette is lit, the smoke is inhaled, in the same brief second, with no remarkable awkwardness or hesitation. I'm accustomed to seeing at least a minor pause of miscontrol, an errant look, some failed dexterity. There is none. I witness a second act of smooth operation. The burly type --it's unnecessary that we consider him a brute-- asks the other for a piece of gum, not a stick of gum, but those small white pills you punch out of plastic and foil. This movement is quicker than the one before and far more personal. A pair of pinched fingers lays the gum directly on the other's tongue, and if I'm not mistaken, there is enough extra contact to make this gift unsanitary. What's worse, the happy tongue grotesquely curls, from the tip backward, in a slow curve, to receive the gum, which it hugs triumphantly, before the pair disappear into the actively chewing mouth. Of course, it wasn't a slow curve, but there is an abolishment of time in the feeling of surprise or nausea.
They debate about which is harder, the skulls of men or that of a particular dog. They talk about their fish. Apparently, they own a species of fighting fish--or perhaps they train normal fish for combat. They talk about staring at the respective tanks for hours, waiting for the business, the thin ribbons of red, the shredded fins. One becomes annoyed that the other wants to set up a match too soon. His fish are not yet ready, they are still too small. The challenger knows this, ignores this particular, and repeats a series of offers and compromises. He looks at me as if to extract my opinion. His eyes are filled with persuasion and a faint interest in blood.