Late at night…
23 years ago, I called the bus station and asked how far I could go for $100. One of the prep guys at the Holiday Inn restaurant had come off the sum for my waterbed, the only possession I had worth anything, and I needed to blow town. The voice, slow and smoky, asked, which way?
East, I guess. It was as good a direction as any, from there in the midmap. A girl who would later kill me drove me down and 89 of those dollars later I was off toward Georgia with a typewriter in one hand and a pillowcase of clothes and books in the other. In the Memphis night, with a view of the Peabody, I bought smokes and chips, denting my reserves, then watched the southern countryside slip past between the pools of darkness.
When the morning found me, I had eight dollars and no plan in my pocket, and I leaned against the wall of a building somewhere in downtown Atlanta. I was 24.
The melody was familiar. Alone. Strange town. Broke. The years were like this. Aimless and indifferent, I moved through my time, collecting scars.
I tried to love that girl, tried to make her love me, but she could see the nothing in me, and those miles between made it bigger. Later, when I was dead, I tried to be shocked. I could see the nothing too.
In a motel that catered to infidelity, I stood behind the counter and took money from the desperately short of time, who would be gone before dark, and off my shift I’d let myself in to watch tv or sleep on the other bed until housekeeping would push me back to the desk. And when it was slow, when all the rooms were rented, I’d set my typewriter on the counter and torture the language while my coffee got cold.
I’d call, and we’d promise, and maybe we meant it. Nothing is hard to overcome.
The job was honest, and I did it, and I got a room in a basement, where I ate oatmeal from a pan and decided it was okay, being dead.
And with five quarters gathered up sometimes, and a walk to the diner with the cigarette machine, when it was late, and the guys would slow their cars and call out, and sometimes I’d look, I’d see their smiles, and I’d hear the women calling back, and I’d lock them away to write them later, when I came back to life.
on November 5, 2006 at 9:17 pm
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So this is where you are…
Do you think that time was necessary for you – as a person, or as a writer – or do you think we just tell ourselves that?
on November 5, 2006 at 11:28 pm
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Yes, this is where I am…
It’s mundane, really, but still necessary, I think, depending on how it’s applied.
Oddly enough, I had just been reading your blog, when I thought I’d jot something down, to do a little riff on your tone there. Your style has a languid, jazzy feel to it, and I wanted to improvise a few bars.
Thanks for stopping by.
on June 9, 2008 at 1:54 pm
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[...] other news, the nice folks who put together You’re Not the Only One declined to include the piece I submitted, thus meeting minimum standards of taste and quality that would have been impossible otherwise, and [...]