1
i am standing in the middle of a room that is strewn with dirty clothes, papers, food wrappers, empty boxes, and hideous dark pictures, sculptures of paper bellowing from the white walls. the walls look hot, dim with the amber saturation of my lamp, something stolen from someone who lived here before. ladybugs grouch at my window, flitting their wings about because they can't do much else, not even if you put a thousand of them at a thousand typewriters for a thousand years. a couple pillows without their cases, crouched like fetuses in the corner, slowly inhale dust. the air is smoky and acrid, and the carpet is worn where i always pace back and forth. inane conversation floats over the haze:
"you should get a job at fuckin amazon.com, man ... no yeah, you'd totally get so much free shit!"
"i'm pretty sure that amazon.com is a website, not a place you go into for work, dude ..."
"what, you think websites just run by themselves? don't be dense, asshole."
"i'd at least have to move to like san francisco or some shit, i'm not into that idea."
"yes. yes, no, you're right, absolutely. stay in jersey, stay here, eat your mom's leftovers when she brings them by on sunday nights. FUCKING A, man. live your fantasy, by all fucking means."
"fuck off."
i've been out of a job for about two months now, and yes, while it's wonderful that my mother graces my kitchenette with her leftover pasta dishes every week, it's probably about time for me to either learn how to cook or start making enough money to make eating out affordable. i've skipped out on rent the past three months in a row, and my landlord's blind as stevie wonder, but i'm pretty sure he's noticed by now that his wallet is a sight less full than it should be. des turns his body and returns it, now with a steak and cheese in his hand, looking cooked, frozen, thawed, and unmicrowaved. a surge of hunger pounds my belly. where did he get this treat? was that lying around my apartment? for how long? is it expired? does it matter?
i respond to des' caloric intake with compulsive exercise, grabbing the chinup bar above my door automatically at the sight of food and pulling a couple reps before "getting bored" and opting out in favor of tying my shoes, discreetly rubbing my arm muscles where they throb with the pace of fatigue.
"you should get a job at fuckin amazon.com, man ... no yeah, you'd totally get so much free shit!"
"i'm pretty sure that amazon.com is a website, not a place you go into for work, dude ..."
"what, you think websites just run by themselves? don't be dense, asshole."
"i'd at least have to move to like san francisco or some shit, i'm not into that idea."
"yes. yes, no, you're right, absolutely. stay in jersey, stay here, eat your mom's leftovers when she brings them by on sunday nights. FUCKING A, man. live your fantasy, by all fucking means."
"fuck off."
i've been out of a job for about two months now, and yes, while it's wonderful that my mother graces my kitchenette with her leftover pasta dishes every week, it's probably about time for me to either learn how to cook or start making enough money to make eating out affordable. i've skipped out on rent the past three months in a row, and my landlord's blind as stevie wonder, but i'm pretty sure he's noticed by now that his wallet is a sight less full than it should be. des turns his body and returns it, now with a steak and cheese in his hand, looking cooked, frozen, thawed, and unmicrowaved. a surge of hunger pounds my belly. where did he get this treat? was that lying around my apartment? for how long? is it expired? does it matter?
i respond to des' caloric intake with compulsive exercise, grabbing the chinup bar above my door automatically at the sight of food and pulling a couple reps before "getting bored" and opting out in favor of tying my shoes, discreetly rubbing my arm muscles where they throb with the pace of fatigue.