A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || January 9, 2007 || 12:01 am

doot-de-dooooo

Yesterday, slogging through some mindless errand, I pulled up to a rather ratty store. My aim was to secure a bag of those little diswasher-pouch-detergent-thingys because if anyone around here gets the sniff of being out of something it’s tragic. By tragic, I mean that things get left by the wayside; I did not for one instant relish the notion of a pile of dishes being left in the sink because someone’s logic dictates not having the means to wash the dishes in automatic fashion equals the dishwasher going bare and crying forlornly for dirtied glassware and forks.

Dark had just fallen; it was raining, the cold metronomic sort of rain that reminds lonely people yes, they are indeed lonely. The kind of rain that rain-lovers everywhere get all a-tizzy about. Sometimes those people are one and the same.

On the phone and scattered, I placed my boot squarely in a puddle with a confidence that said, “I planned that. I like boots and I like puddles and I like determined splishing.” I really didn’t plan it. It seems that I don’t plan anything lately. I throw off the mighty illusion of being One Who Plans And Has It Together, but….oh, not so much. I got fucked on that tip somewhere back in the fall and though there are bearings, they are not fixed and limited like all good and well-behaved bearings should be. I think they are in a baggie, clinking together from the confines of a fatigue jacket that feels more like home than any one thing I’ve ever, ever owned.

As I turned to shut the car door and lock up, something in the rattletrap parking lot caught my eye: Stacked up next to a shabby blue dumpster were several boxes, boldly emblazoned with the word ‘SUN’ in bright orange. They were empty and soaked but holding up very nicely; bravery for bravery’s sake and how could I not admire them for it?

“Damn it, damn it,” I spat into the phone, “I never have my camera when I run across the very best stuffs.” and I described the scene into the mouthpiece.

“Heh, somebody used it all up… ‘No more sun for y’all today.’”

“See? What a great photo that would make.

HONey,” red said to me, “what exactly is wrong with you? You sound terribly bored.” This from the man who was in the midst of cooking a meal for a girl he didn’t much want to see anyway.

(“Give ‘er my number and tell her to call me, redclay. I could spin up about ten reasons in two minutes or less why she needs to stay away from you.”

“Hell, I could give her thirty more on top of that, in half that time.” He always tries to one-up me, this foolish man.)

“With this head? I am never bored, sir.”

“You must need a vacation, then.”

“No shit.”

I’ve no idea who I’d be when I got there. I’ve no idea if –were I to listen good and hard to my heart rather than my sense of duty and uprightness– I would come back.

Why do I feel like the I’m the only person on the planet that entertains these things for more than ten minutes at a stretch??

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)