(no subject)
Yellow light from a billboard flickers into the room through venetian blinds, ricocheting off glass and steel. I notice the gun first. It’s a beautiful bluish color, and sits on the table next to a glass of brownish liquid I know to be bourbon; I wouldn’t drink anything else.
I’d poured it about an hour ago; right after discovering your note.
Idle water on the table, threatens the paper that you wrote your words on after I’d let it slip from my fingers. Meanwhile the flickering light probes silently, as if to not disturb me.
Now, I’m no professional writer, but it doesn’t matter; nobody proofreads these words, nobody tells me to re-write this, or that; no-one really cares because except for you, and of course me, no-one knows.
Another restless night; thoughts about the meaning of vivid dreams of Nam punctuates short ‘in between’ dreams about the same, adding to the clutter of a mind barely functioning in the world; either mine or any. It’s been this way for months now; I have no idea why after nearly 40 years of being free, I can’t find an escape route.
I was looking for something to do before the note.
My friends and others tell me I’m depressed.
But, I’m not; I’m just fucking bored.
Probably like you.
Anyhow - that’s how I got here.
It all started at a place I’d never been; a combination antique, book, and assorted junk establishment, right off of main street, about a block from the Fire Station. When I discovered it I was instantly reminded of the book store back in Elk; the one we kids traded our comic books. They gave us ‘one for two.’ and the one we got - had the top half of the cover page torn off. I always wondered why they did that; meant to ask, but never got around to it. Next thing I knew, I got drafted.
I think the reason for the ‘backward triggering’ was simple; the store of my youth; right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station, and this one, right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station are almost exact duplicates. But, alas, I’ve already said that haven’t I? Maybe said it more than twice too.
On the drive across town from our house, I’d been thinking of another house in Amarillo, and from there it had been a short leap to the bus with Mom and little brother. In the bus my face is pressed against a smudged window and I see the old stores; Woolworths ‘FIve and Dime,’ Montgomery Wards, and Macy’s, as they flutter by, escaping my gaze by disappearing into grayish shadows of unforgiving buildings. Briefly, outside, I see people walking on sidewalks, carrying bulging sacks of different colors; everyone (women too) wearing hats, and I wonder quite crazily, if they (hats) are coming back in vogue.
From somewhere I feel a slight but uneasy breeze, and in the distance I see the “big robotic cowboy” on Dunn Street, the one across from the elementary school I attended; his mechanical arm waving constantly, waving for folks to come eat at “Tex’s Steakhouse.” I wonder if he’s still there, still waving; I wonder. I wonder all the time.
I was looking for something to do; before the note.
My friends and others tell me I’m depressed.
But, I’m not; I’m just fucking bored.
Probably like you.
Anyhow - that’s how I got where I’m now at.
It began at the little store; reminding me of the one back home; the one we kids traded our comic books. They gave us ‘one for two.’ and the one we got - had the top half of the cover page tore off. I always wondered why they did that; meant to ask, but never got around to it. Next thing I knew, I got drafted. But, I’ve already said that, haven’t I?
Trying to find the reason it triggered me back a half century proved simple. The way it was similarly situated to the book store of my youth; right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station. There I’ve said it again, haven’t I? Once deciding the reason, I of course, began to doubt it. On the drive from our house, I’d been swept back to another house, In Amarillo, and I’m once again on the bus with Mom, and little brother. My kid face is pressed against a smudged window, and I see the old stores; Woolworths ‘Five and Dime,’ Montgomery Wards, and Macy’s as they flutter by, escaping my gaze by disappearing into the shadows. Briefly, I see people walking on a sidewalk, carrying sacks with strange names on them, everyone (women too) wearing hats, and I wonder quite crazily, if they (hats) are coming back in vogue. I can feel a slight breeze blowing and in the distance I see the big robotic cowboy on Dunn Street, the one across from the elementary school I attended; his mechanical arm waving. Constantly waving for folks to come eat at “Tex’s Steakhouse.” Have I said it again? I wonder.
The cliche “Fiction is sometimes stranger than truth,” comes to mind, as I think to myself that at least I’m not repeating it aloud to anyone, although I know I’m repeating myself, not that anyone is around to notice, except for you.
I’ve never been here before, but as I step into the small room, the smell is that of the past, and I feel its familar warmth. I feel it but as I look around I can’t see it, and this scares me.
I pick up a book, its title and author nowhere to be found on the outside cover. It’s old and dusty, the binding coming unglued, and predictably, I remember the Erle Stanley Garder mysteries (think Perry Mason) I used to read back in Elk.
I find myself sitting here, not remembering how I got here but wondering, always wondering. I notice the glass of bourbon on the table next to me; the accumulated sweat on the glass. And I think I’ve been here before. As I open the book and see the title; “The Case of the Howling Dog,” I remember it as one of Erle’s, and one I’ve read. Flipping the pages I’m surprised to find a sheet of paper folded in half. And removing it, I unfold it and start to read. Although I’m surprised to find the note, I’m not surprised that it’s from you.
I read “Dear Ice,” and stop. I wonder what I’m doing, and why. I wonder if I should continue reading a note from someone who knows me as “Ice,” and I wonder if it is the marijuana, or the “Happy Pills” the wife has forced on me? I don’t know, but I know I’ll never know unless I read your note.
you’ll wonder why I left so quickly, but not I,
---- for I never did.
every time you think yourself alone
just think of the good times
---- for that’s what I do.
and if you get to wondering
----like I do.
why I had to leave so quickly
think not that I did
think Leo
Terry
I’d poured it about an hour ago; right after discovering your note.
Idle water on the table, threatens the paper that you wrote your words on after I’d let it slip from my fingers. Meanwhile the flickering light probes silently, as if to not disturb me.
Now, I’m no professional writer, but it doesn’t matter; nobody proofreads these words, nobody tells me to re-write this, or that; no-one really cares because except for you, and of course me, no-one knows.
Another restless night; thoughts about the meaning of vivid dreams of Nam punctuates short ‘in between’ dreams about the same, adding to the clutter of a mind barely functioning in the world; either mine or any. It’s been this way for months now; I have no idea why after nearly 40 years of being free, I can’t find an escape route.
I was looking for something to do before the note.
My friends and others tell me I’m depressed.
But, I’m not; I’m just fucking bored.
Probably like you.
Anyhow - that’s how I got here.
It all started at a place I’d never been; a combination antique, book, and assorted junk establishment, right off of main street, about a block from the Fire Station. When I discovered it I was instantly reminded of the book store back in Elk; the one we kids traded our comic books. They gave us ‘one for two.’ and the one we got - had the top half of the cover page torn off. I always wondered why they did that; meant to ask, but never got around to it. Next thing I knew, I got drafted.
I think the reason for the ‘backward triggering’ was simple; the store of my youth; right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station, and this one, right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station are almost exact duplicates. But, alas, I’ve already said that haven’t I? Maybe said it more than twice too.
On the drive across town from our house, I’d been thinking of another house in Amarillo, and from there it had been a short leap to the bus with Mom and little brother. In the bus my face is pressed against a smudged window and I see the old stores; Woolworths ‘FIve and Dime,’ Montgomery Wards, and Macy’s, as they flutter by, escaping my gaze by disappearing into grayish shadows of unforgiving buildings. Briefly, outside, I see people walking on sidewalks, carrying bulging sacks of different colors; everyone (women too) wearing hats, and I wonder quite crazily, if they (hats) are coming back in vogue.
From somewhere I feel a slight but uneasy breeze, and in the distance I see the “big robotic cowboy” on Dunn Street, the one across from the elementary school I attended; his mechanical arm waving constantly, waving for folks to come eat at “Tex’s Steakhouse.” I wonder if he’s still there, still waving; I wonder. I wonder all the time.
I was looking for something to do; before the note.
My friends and others tell me I’m depressed.
But, I’m not; I’m just fucking bored.
Probably like you.
Anyhow - that’s how I got where I’m now at.
It began at the little store; reminding me of the one back home; the one we kids traded our comic books. They gave us ‘one for two.’ and the one we got - had the top half of the cover page tore off. I always wondered why they did that; meant to ask, but never got around to it. Next thing I knew, I got drafted. But, I’ve already said that, haven’t I?
Trying to find the reason it triggered me back a half century proved simple. The way it was similarly situated to the book store of my youth; right off of main, about a block from the Fire Station. There I’ve said it again, haven’t I? Once deciding the reason, I of course, began to doubt it. On the drive from our house, I’d been swept back to another house, In Amarillo, and I’m once again on the bus with Mom, and little brother. My kid face is pressed against a smudged window, and I see the old stores; Woolworths ‘Five and Dime,’ Montgomery Wards, and Macy’s as they flutter by, escaping my gaze by disappearing into the shadows. Briefly, I see people walking on a sidewalk, carrying sacks with strange names on them, everyone (women too) wearing hats, and I wonder quite crazily, if they (hats) are coming back in vogue. I can feel a slight breeze blowing and in the distance I see the big robotic cowboy on Dunn Street, the one across from the elementary school I attended; his mechanical arm waving. Constantly waving for folks to come eat at “Tex’s Steakhouse.” Have I said it again? I wonder.
The cliche “Fiction is sometimes stranger than truth,” comes to mind, as I think to myself that at least I’m not repeating it aloud to anyone, although I know I’m repeating myself, not that anyone is around to notice, except for you.
I’ve never been here before, but as I step into the small room, the smell is that of the past, and I feel its familar warmth. I feel it but as I look around I can’t see it, and this scares me.
I pick up a book, its title and author nowhere to be found on the outside cover. It’s old and dusty, the binding coming unglued, and predictably, I remember the Erle Stanley Garder mysteries (think Perry Mason) I used to read back in Elk.
I find myself sitting here, not remembering how I got here but wondering, always wondering. I notice the glass of bourbon on the table next to me; the accumulated sweat on the glass. And I think I’ve been here before. As I open the book and see the title; “The Case of the Howling Dog,” I remember it as one of Erle’s, and one I’ve read. Flipping the pages I’m surprised to find a sheet of paper folded in half. And removing it, I unfold it and start to read. Although I’m surprised to find the note, I’m not surprised that it’s from you.
I read “Dear Ice,” and stop. I wonder what I’m doing, and why. I wonder if I should continue reading a note from someone who knows me as “Ice,” and I wonder if it is the marijuana, or the “Happy Pills” the wife has forced on me? I don’t know, but I know I’ll never know unless I read your note.
you’ll wonder why I left so quickly, but not I,
---- for I never did.
every time you think yourself alone
just think of the good times
---- for that’s what I do.
and if you get to wondering
----like I do.
why I had to leave so quickly
think not that I did
think Leo
Terry