Indian Summer: a story
Walter thinks, there is a culpable feeling of something in the air tonight. He is not entirely sure what culpable means, but he enjoys the sound of the word; moreover he is uncertain as to which feelings are hanging in the lukewarm air of an Indian Summer, nibbling at his ears, but they have left him with a headache. Plus the fact that he is still high, kind of, or at least dealing with the scattershot confusion of three days spent with marijuana and the beaming glow of a computer screen. The face of the steel refinery, it seems to Walter, is watching him, staring pointedly with accusations in its glare. It is angry with Walter, this steel refinery. Culpably so.
There are a number of voicemails stored in Walter's phone. He has listened to some of them. There are people he should call, might call, but he's not sure which of them he actually wants to call and which he feels duty-bound to call. Walter is not sure whether today is the kind of masochistic day best spent with people he sort of can't stand. Most days are, but a few are not. The steel refinery seems to know, but remains silent and stone faced. Dogs from the parking lot next door bark at Walter. They are not happy with his being there. This is their nature. They are angry dogs. Walter tries not to take it personally.
The grocery store exhausts Walter. His lungs are worn down; he smokes too many cigarettes. When the air outside has returned to normal, when it is no longer filled with a culpable whatsit, then Walter will no longer feel tired. The grocery store will be a routine excursion, mildly refreshing and largely forgettable.
Warm winter nights are like looking at old pictures of ex-girlfriends, Walter muses. Transient remembrance of the angry nights spent forgetting not to scream loudly enough to wake up roommates alternating randomly with whiffs of nights spent forgetting not to fuck loudly enough to wake up roommates. This is the pepper and salt of Love, thinks Walter. It smells like sex on the sheets and tastes of bitter regret. They are always nights creeping through in Indian Summer. When love is lost the days go with it.
Being friendly at a grocery store is a mixed affair. Most people don't want to be at a grocery store and aren't open to meeting anyone new. The have no motivation, Walter reasons. These are people for whom the culpable demands of the outdoors have faded. These are the people who go to the grocery store quickly. The other group of people, desperate people--among whom Walter counts himself, presently--come up for air rarely and spend most of their time getting high in front of computers, or some such thing. Oftentimes they are skittish and difficult to pin down. Today Walter craps out. It is a high gamble, desperation.
There is an arrangement, Walter thinks, made throughout the world. A non-aggression pact--essence of society--but it chafes at our ankles. It breeds aggression. It is hidden in the darker corners of the grocery store, where the sparse automotive parts blend with next season's holiday decorations. It is hidden in the face of the steel refinery, but it is not hidden in the parking lot dogs. With them it is very clear.
If I buy meat for the dogs, thinks Walter, they will become my friends. Meat is the answer to the world's problems. Meat is floating through the air, causing reasonable men to pull up their collars and tie up their scarves. Meat is currency, a bargaining tool, the foundation of love's rise and folly.
But meat rots quickly, thinks Walter, and that is very ominous.
There are a number of voicemails stored in Walter's phone. He has listened to some of them. There are people he should call, might call, but he's not sure which of them he actually wants to call and which he feels duty-bound to call. Walter is not sure whether today is the kind of masochistic day best spent with people he sort of can't stand. Most days are, but a few are not. The steel refinery seems to know, but remains silent and stone faced. Dogs from the parking lot next door bark at Walter. They are not happy with his being there. This is their nature. They are angry dogs. Walter tries not to take it personally.
The grocery store exhausts Walter. His lungs are worn down; he smokes too many cigarettes. When the air outside has returned to normal, when it is no longer filled with a culpable whatsit, then Walter will no longer feel tired. The grocery store will be a routine excursion, mildly refreshing and largely forgettable.
Warm winter nights are like looking at old pictures of ex-girlfriends, Walter muses. Transient remembrance of the angry nights spent forgetting not to scream loudly enough to wake up roommates alternating randomly with whiffs of nights spent forgetting not to fuck loudly enough to wake up roommates. This is the pepper and salt of Love, thinks Walter. It smells like sex on the sheets and tastes of bitter regret. They are always nights creeping through in Indian Summer. When love is lost the days go with it.
Being friendly at a grocery store is a mixed affair. Most people don't want to be at a grocery store and aren't open to meeting anyone new. The have no motivation, Walter reasons. These are people for whom the culpable demands of the outdoors have faded. These are the people who go to the grocery store quickly. The other group of people, desperate people--among whom Walter counts himself, presently--come up for air rarely and spend most of their time getting high in front of computers, or some such thing. Oftentimes they are skittish and difficult to pin down. Today Walter craps out. It is a high gamble, desperation.
There is an arrangement, Walter thinks, made throughout the world. A non-aggression pact--essence of society--but it chafes at our ankles. It breeds aggression. It is hidden in the darker corners of the grocery store, where the sparse automotive parts blend with next season's holiday decorations. It is hidden in the face of the steel refinery, but it is not hidden in the parking lot dogs. With them it is very clear.
If I buy meat for the dogs, thinks Walter, they will become my friends. Meat is the answer to the world's problems. Meat is floating through the air, causing reasonable men to pull up their collars and tie up their scarves. Meat is currency, a bargaining tool, the foundation of love's rise and folly.
But meat rots quickly, thinks Walter, and that is very ominous.