Cities and Stories
I adapt to places too quickly.
When I went to London, I didn't even nap to get rid of jet lag, I went out on the streets, sans map, sans everything but clothes and music and cash and wandered. Went to a strange Thames pumping station...had a snack at a tiny cafe...enjoyed myself.
When I was in Chicago yesterday, for a neurologist appointment, it made me miss cities. A lot. I was ready to move there, right that second. The madness of the driving, the streets, the people, the...feeling of life. It's not that Urbana doesn't feel alive, and it's not that I don't love living here, it's just...I thrive so much on chaos, and cities feed that need for me.
I need to be rich enough that I can have more than one place to live. :|
Now, I'm going to write, without thinking about it, something short that has an end. Because I have nothing but love for you. Tender, yet sloppy, love.
---
The old man said he knew my father. I assumed he was lying, because my mother had taken his name to the grave with her twenty years ago. What he told me, though...I like to think it was true.
"It was World War One," he said, and you could hear the capital letters in his voice, "Or The Great War, as we called it back then. And don't let the movies lie to you, we all knew how ignoble it all was within a year of it starting. But we still joined up. That was what men did, you see?" He started coughing horribly, and yanked the cigarette from my mouth.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking..." I started to say, just as he took the longest drag I've ever seen. "Being homeless means you get your cigarettes where you can. Out here, if you've got a pack when you fall asleep, you better tuck it under your balls or it'll be gone when you wake up."
I took another drink from my bottled water, and he gave me a look that I just knew meant he was laughing at me on the inside. He was sipping from a twenty year old Schlitz can he'd just filled with water from a nearby fountain, the one with kids, dogs, and pigeons in it.
"Anyways," he said, leaving the cigarette dangling from his lips, "I knew you was Paul's son from the way you walked, and that stupid grin on your face. I ain't never met anybody with the same smile or the same walk as that man, and to see both on the same guy..." he paused and took another pull. "You gotta be his kid."
"You ain't as good lookin' as your old man, but that ain't sayin' much. Steve McQueen woulda looked like a pig's ass next to your da'. Coulda had any woman he wanted, that fella. We all used to figger he was a fairy, 'cause when we went into town, he never went off with any ladies, he just drank until he passed out. Usually about a fifth is what it took."
Chalk one up for family resemblences.
"I figger yer mom was the only American woman we ever met over there who wasn't an ambulance driver or a uniform chaser. She was a bartender at a little town called Seicheprey. It went back and forth during the war, that city, but at that time it was all Allies. We thought she was a Frenchie until the company pervert, Gregory, pinched her ass. She spun around -- still carrying her tray full of beer -- and smacked him clean across the face."
"That sounds like my mom, alright. But how'd you know she was American?"
"Well, when you're swearing -- in English - so much that you're making a foom full of doughboys blush, your Midwest accent tends to come out."
"Okay, that really sounds like her. How come she never told me she was in France, though?"
"How come she lied to you and told you Santa was real for ten years? Fuck should I know? Anyway, you wanna hear this or you wanna hear your own voice?"
I shut my trap and lit two cigarettes. I passed him one and took a drag off my own.
"Anyways, one night we got to the bar and she walked right up to your Da' and whispered something in his ear. He smiled, whispered back, and they went out the back door together. We all thought something was up, for sure, but it wasn't until he came back an hour and a half later with his short torn up, his hair a bird's nest, nail marks on his neck, and a shit-eating grin on his face that we knew he'd had the best sex in his life. Good timing, too."
The old man stared at me, daring me to interrupt.
"We were playing poker in the trench the next night, with cards so muddy and filthy that you had to scrape them after every deal just to read what you had in your hand. Anyways, the betting was getting pretty fierce between him and Al, and yer papa was out of cash and trade, so he told 'em he'd jump on the next grenade that landed near Al. They shook on it, laughing, and your dad slapped his knee when his three queens met Al's full house."
He took another long drag and emptied his beer can.
"I'll be the devil's whore in hell if a potato masher didn't fly over the edge of the trench right then. Yer da' tipped his hat, said something about a bet being a bet, and as the other men dove fer cover...he fell right on top of the damn thing. Woulda killed us all...instead it just covered us in Paul."
I tried to figure out what to say to this man who had so kindly told me who my dad really was. I just sat there, dumbstruck.
"Now," said the old man, snatching the pack of Camels from my hand, "This ain't no goddamn movie. I'm not gonna reveal that I'm really your father, and I'm not gonna die now that you've solved the mystery of who your dad was. In fact, you're gonna fuck off, and I'll likely not see you again. Right?"
I just stood up and started walking back down the path.
"HEY!" I heard him shout from behind me.
I turned around...and he was flipping me the bird, laughing his ass off.
"Never look back, you litttle shit!"
----
benjamin
When I went to London, I didn't even nap to get rid of jet lag, I went out on the streets, sans map, sans everything but clothes and music and cash and wandered. Went to a strange Thames pumping station...had a snack at a tiny cafe...enjoyed myself.
When I was in Chicago yesterday, for a neurologist appointment, it made me miss cities. A lot. I was ready to move there, right that second. The madness of the driving, the streets, the people, the...feeling of life. It's not that Urbana doesn't feel alive, and it's not that I don't love living here, it's just...I thrive so much on chaos, and cities feed that need for me.
I need to be rich enough that I can have more than one place to live. :|
Now, I'm going to write, without thinking about it, something short that has an end. Because I have nothing but love for you. Tender, yet sloppy, love.
---
The old man said he knew my father. I assumed he was lying, because my mother had taken his name to the grave with her twenty years ago. What he told me, though...I like to think it was true.
"It was World War One," he said, and you could hear the capital letters in his voice, "Or The Great War, as we called it back then. And don't let the movies lie to you, we all knew how ignoble it all was within a year of it starting. But we still joined up. That was what men did, you see?" He started coughing horribly, and yanked the cigarette from my mouth.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking..." I started to say, just as he took the longest drag I've ever seen. "Being homeless means you get your cigarettes where you can. Out here, if you've got a pack when you fall asleep, you better tuck it under your balls or it'll be gone when you wake up."
I took another drink from my bottled water, and he gave me a look that I just knew meant he was laughing at me on the inside. He was sipping from a twenty year old Schlitz can he'd just filled with water from a nearby fountain, the one with kids, dogs, and pigeons in it.
"Anyways," he said, leaving the cigarette dangling from his lips, "I knew you was Paul's son from the way you walked, and that stupid grin on your face. I ain't never met anybody with the same smile or the same walk as that man, and to see both on the same guy..." he paused and took another pull. "You gotta be his kid."
"You ain't as good lookin' as your old man, but that ain't sayin' much. Steve McQueen woulda looked like a pig's ass next to your da'. Coulda had any woman he wanted, that fella. We all used to figger he was a fairy, 'cause when we went into town, he never went off with any ladies, he just drank until he passed out. Usually about a fifth is what it took."
Chalk one up for family resemblences.
"I figger yer mom was the only American woman we ever met over there who wasn't an ambulance driver or a uniform chaser. She was a bartender at a little town called Seicheprey. It went back and forth during the war, that city, but at that time it was all Allies. We thought she was a Frenchie until the company pervert, Gregory, pinched her ass. She spun around -- still carrying her tray full of beer -- and smacked him clean across the face."
"That sounds like my mom, alright. But how'd you know she was American?"
"Well, when you're swearing -- in English - so much that you're making a foom full of doughboys blush, your Midwest accent tends to come out."
"Okay, that really sounds like her. How come she never told me she was in France, though?"
"How come she lied to you and told you Santa was real for ten years? Fuck should I know? Anyway, you wanna hear this or you wanna hear your own voice?"
I shut my trap and lit two cigarettes. I passed him one and took a drag off my own.
"Anyways, one night we got to the bar and she walked right up to your Da' and whispered something in his ear. He smiled, whispered back, and they went out the back door together. We all thought something was up, for sure, but it wasn't until he came back an hour and a half later with his short torn up, his hair a bird's nest, nail marks on his neck, and a shit-eating grin on his face that we knew he'd had the best sex in his life. Good timing, too."
The old man stared at me, daring me to interrupt.
"We were playing poker in the trench the next night, with cards so muddy and filthy that you had to scrape them after every deal just to read what you had in your hand. Anyways, the betting was getting pretty fierce between him and Al, and yer papa was out of cash and trade, so he told 'em he'd jump on the next grenade that landed near Al. They shook on it, laughing, and your dad slapped his knee when his three queens met Al's full house."
He took another long drag and emptied his beer can.
"I'll be the devil's whore in hell if a potato masher didn't fly over the edge of the trench right then. Yer da' tipped his hat, said something about a bet being a bet, and as the other men dove fer cover...he fell right on top of the damn thing. Woulda killed us all...instead it just covered us in Paul."
I tried to figure out what to say to this man who had so kindly told me who my dad really was. I just sat there, dumbstruck.
"Now," said the old man, snatching the pack of Camels from my hand, "This ain't no goddamn movie. I'm not gonna reveal that I'm really your father, and I'm not gonna die now that you've solved the mystery of who your dad was. In fact, you're gonna fuck off, and I'll likely not see you again. Right?"
I just stood up and started walking back down the path.
"HEY!" I heard him shout from behind me.
I turned around...and he was flipping me the bird, laughing his ass off.
"Never look back, you litttle shit!"
----
benjamin