Waiting for the deathblow...
Stacks of books. Library books with the sign-out cards stuck in the back. New York Public Library. San Francisco, New Orleans, Chicago, Los Angeles. Places he'd been, unfamiliar names signed on the cards, dating back to the seventies and on. Biographies of great thinkers, of artists, of madmen. That's all the bookcase would give him, stacks of them, piled up around his hut, tucked under his arms, held in front of his face while he walked the path.
Now, he stood in the kitchen, a book of American poetry open and face down nearby, the protective plastic cover dotted with moisture from his hands, waiting while he made himself a sandwich.
In 1981, he'd left Baton Rogue, he'd left Elizabeth behind... Or maybe she left him. It depended on how you looked at it. Ten years on, it didn't really matter how the story went. He'd left her behind, left school, and eventually he'd ended up in New York. To the shocking bustle of the city, to sex and drugs and dark bars and pretentious intellectuals and businessmen. He'd gone to a club in the summer of '83, The Cure pumping over the sound system, and he'd weaved through the crowd with a glass of seltzer water in hand. Sober. He didn't like being out of control. He was out of control enough as it was, without fucking himself up with chemicals.
He'd met a girl there. Candy. No, Candi with an i. They'd talked, hidden in the relative peace at the back of the club. No video camera yet, but the seeds of it had started already. They'd talked, and by the end of it he felt like he knew her better than he knew himself. Then, in the corridor outside the bathroom, she stuck her hands down the front of his pants, stroking him with long, warm fingers, but he'd felt like bolting. He felt like pushing her away, smelling of smoke and booze and tasting of cheap lipgloss, and going to wash his hands. She'd tried, stubbornly, but her wrist got tired after a few minutes and she'd sighed, heavy with disappointment, and told him that it was okay. Every guy had trouble when he was drunk.
Stone cold sober, Graham took the subway home. He scrounged up the money and bought a camera the very next week.
In the present, standing under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, the Cure played on the jukebox, drifting through the open door of the kitchen while he spread mustard neatly on two pieces of bread. It was funny, in a way.
Or maybe it wasn't at all.
[[Open to all. It's always a good time to meet him. LT/ST welcome, as always.]]
Now, he stood in the kitchen, a book of American poetry open and face down nearby, the protective plastic cover dotted with moisture from his hands, waiting while he made himself a sandwich.
In 1981, he'd left Baton Rogue, he'd left Elizabeth behind... Or maybe she left him. It depended on how you looked at it. Ten years on, it didn't really matter how the story went. He'd left her behind, left school, and eventually he'd ended up in New York. To the shocking bustle of the city, to sex and drugs and dark bars and pretentious intellectuals and businessmen. He'd gone to a club in the summer of '83, The Cure pumping over the sound system, and he'd weaved through the crowd with a glass of seltzer water in hand. Sober. He didn't like being out of control. He was out of control enough as it was, without fucking himself up with chemicals.
He'd met a girl there. Candy. No, Candi with an i. They'd talked, hidden in the relative peace at the back of the club. No video camera yet, but the seeds of it had started already. They'd talked, and by the end of it he felt like he knew her better than he knew himself. Then, in the corridor outside the bathroom, she stuck her hands down the front of his pants, stroking him with long, warm fingers, but he'd felt like bolting. He felt like pushing her away, smelling of smoke and booze and tasting of cheap lipgloss, and going to wash his hands. She'd tried, stubbornly, but her wrist got tired after a few minutes and she'd sighed, heavy with disappointment, and told him that it was okay. Every guy had trouble when he was drunk.
Stone cold sober, Graham took the subway home. He scrounged up the money and bought a camera the very next week.
In the present, standing under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, the Cure played on the jukebox, drifting through the open door of the kitchen while he spread mustard neatly on two pieces of bread. It was funny, in a way.
Or maybe it wasn't at all.
[[Open to all. It's always a good time to meet him. LT/ST welcome, as always.]]