Quick movements reverberated across the floor, up through the steel frame of the couch, and throughout his skull. He opened his eyes to see Jack moving hurriedly about the apartment. “Up,” he said as if he had said it more than once, sounding impossibly sober. They had been up drinking until 4:30am, watching Nixon, a movie Jack quoted incessantly.
He peeled his face from the couch and slowly sat up. It took effort to merely hold still. Jack was going to Hoboken to see his girlfriend. The hurried pacing stopped momentarily. A disapproving look was leveled from across the room. “You really look like shit,” he said brusquely and then proceeded to zip up his one piece of luggage. Slinging it across his back he rattled his car keys in a manner that grated on his desiccated brain. The sight of the bottle of red wine in his right hand made him queasy as he felt himself jostled and turned side to side as Jack pointed at him with the bottle. Watching the tumultuous sway of wine at the neck he felt himself at the mercy of that crimson sea.
“Where are you going,” he said. “No church today. Church on Saturday? What are you dressed for? Not for church?” he asked in a craggy voice.
“Jackass, let’s go,” he replied. And then, “I’ll drop you off.”
He dreaded any movement, let alone descending down three flights of stairs. Walking towards the door, the floor seemed insubstantial-it could give way to nothingness at any moment. Proceeding downward, each drop in elevation furthered the expectation of suddenly dropping away into a never-ending freefall.
It was only a seven minute drive but it felt a drawn out parade through the sunlight's molestation.
The birds were done with their chirping and the second shift of dog walkers, joggers, and assorted exercise ascetics were about their acts of perversion. 9:00am. The day alive and beautiful. He couldn’t wait to go home and give due punctuation to his sickness. From the day, a vampire he would recede- vomitos ex-comunnicatos, amen.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A Peregrin Smile Page 7
And when you don’t care, you’re always the holiday traveler even when anchored at home. The things that dig deeply into everyone else don’t touch you. In that way he was always the tourist. Why we love the rock star, the artist, the actor, writers, and simply anyone free enough to fuck off at any given moment. Of course, our adoration is greatly affected by that troubadour’s monetary holdings, but blessed art thou who hold this peregrine nature in their hearts regardless of low rent one bedroom apartments, colleges loans perpetually placed in forebearance, and swift pints loaded with the sharpness of hops and malty distinctness rather than driveling piss, a refusal to compromise no matter how many times you have to check your bank account before stepping into a bubble.
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