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Columns
Reviews
Original Material
32nd of May
-by
Tony Volpone and Jim McGinley
Chapter 3: Home Sweet Home
Chapter 4: Lady, If Ya Gotta Ask...
Chapter 3: Home Sweet Home
It's
still sometime in the early morning when I finally get back to my modestly
simple yet extremely tasteful apartment. Lately
it's become apparent to me that what I lack in personality I more than make up
for in style. Compensation is so
very important to me.
My
abode is exactly as I had left it; I don't know that I expected anything
different. I had just given the
place a thorough cleaning before I left and spent the night with whoever was in
that apartment that I had just left not so exactly as I had found it.
I hope she doesn't move out on account of the bitter memories that I
helped her to create. God, my sense of self-importance is ever so inflated today!
Actually, it feels kind of good.
Unfortunately,
these proud moments are few and far between in my life, and even the basest
pleasures are fleeting.
I
feather through the mail that I removed from my box on my way inside of the
building. Looks like it had been
accumulating for a good three days. Postcards
and letters, bills and money-saving coupons, all addressed to yours truly --
only it looks as if the post office has decided to add another name to my name:
Stenson
Goshe
Guess
even the United States Postal System has taken notice of my recent foray into
anonymity. Christ, I don't think
that I've told anyone my real name in the past six months.
It would seem that I've turned into some kind of liar. Only question is, what makes me any different than anyone
else in this miserable existence? Once
again, I find it far too challenging to answer questions that I ask of myself.
Time for a drink.
I
drop the mail on the floor next to the table which I had specifically designated
for disregarded mail. The old
hand-eye coordination just ain't what it used to be, but it is of little
consequence; those letters aren't worthy of table placement anyway.
After a glancing inspection I determined that there were no personal
letters that I couldn't simply ignore, and no bills that The Inheritance
wouldn't take care of.
It
is with little difficulty that I find a bottle of Scotch with a few mouthfuls
left in it. After debating as to
whether I should enjoy it with some seltzer or simply on the rocks, I decide
that it would be better for all involved if I just swig it out of the bottle. Grabbing it by the neck, I haul it across the room to my
favorite place in my apartment: a
small landing that sits just in front of a decently sized picture window.
God only knows how many hours I've spent looking out of this window.
From
where I am on the second floor, this window provides me with an excellent view
of Wayward Park, situated directly across the street.
Well, it really isn't called "Wayward Park"; that's just what I
call it. I figure that I shouldn't
have to refer to places by names given to them by people who have been dead
since long before I ever came into existence.
People are always going to do what they want to do, so why should I be
any different?
So,
why "Wayward Park"? I
can't even begin to recall all of the dreams that walked into that park on my
arm, only to leave riding on the coattails of ever intrusive reality. I honestly believe that that's the place where good dreams go
bad. As a matter of fact, I once
saw a rainbow's end unknowingly find it's way into that dark place, whereupon
that very same rainbow, choked in the vice-like death grip of Wayward Park on
one end, suffered a sickeningly cancerous outbreak over it's magnificent arch
straight through to the other side. Fifteen
shades of gray effortlessly overpowered what had once been a seemingly
invincible array of colors, until only a frown of ash remained on the canvas of
already ominous skies.
It
is the place where dreams go to die.
From far, though, it doesn't
look like such a bad place; a couple of trees here, a small pond there, a couple
involved in what would appear to be some kind of domestic squabble. . . Wait a
minute!! That's not supposed to be
there! Now I can't pretend that I
have a lot of respect for the opposite gender, but if there's one thing that I
truly can't stand, it's the sight of an oafish male beating on a frail woman.
Question is: Do I do anything about it?
The
bottle of Scotch is already resting on the windowsill before I have time to
think. I'm almost instantly out the
door, save for a brief stop at that mail table, where hidden in the drawer I
keep a just-in-case blackjack. Always
good to have one of those around. Shortly
thereafter I'm racing down a flight of steps, through the front door and out
into the street. It is indeed time
for a blackjackin' at Wayward Park!
Chapter
4:
Lady, if ya gotta' ask.....
She
was eating dinner, I was enjoying breakfast. It was exactly 6:37pm, on a
Tuesday. Tuesday is my day off, no
piano playing, no Willy's, no radio, nothing remotely related to music. Years
ago I set aside Tuesdays as a day of taking care of all the crap that builds up
during the week. Returning phone
calls, shaving, getting my one good meal a week, laundering my clothing and
tasks of similar weight all pile up and are dispensed with.
I
somehow managed to catch the eye of this girl (the one sitting across form me
eating dinner as I enjoyed breakfast) when I was placing my order. For some
reason she found my standard Tuesday ordering ritual to be a source of endless
amusement. I've noticed her in here
a few times but paid her as much attention as I do wrist pain form too much
practice. It's mildly annoying but goes away with a drink and a few aspirin.
In fact before coming out
here this evening I imbibed a whiskey sour and took half a dozen aspirin in
what is turning out to be a pointless offering to the hand of fate. I had
hoped it somehow would insure a peaceful, solitary meal but instead I find
myself forced to make small talk with a creature I have little or no chance of
relating to. At least it will be interesting. Maybe.....
"Are
you lactose intolerant?" As she spoke I was jarred from my thoughts.
"Huh?"
I ever so smoothly replied as bits of scrambled egg and toast nearly flew form
my mouth.
"Well.
I see you in here all the time and you always get the same thing. you even order
it in the same fashion. 'Two eggs
scrambled, toast dry, not Rye. By
dry I mean no butter. Hash browns, and coffee.'
You never put anything in the coffee, no cream no sugar...I thought you
might be lactose intolerant because you never use butter or cream or get
milk."
The
only reason my mouth didn't fall open in a gesture of freaked out disgust was
that for some reason this happens all the time.
People find eternal fascination with my sleeping and eating habits.
"You
forgot to notice I never use salt, pepper or ketchup" I replied. "Might I ask why you observe and retain the
eating habits of strangers? Do you work for the government or something?"
I'm
not sure why I threw in that last bit. I wasn't sure if it was a pathetic
attempt at flirting or a comment meant to drive her from my table thus
reestablishing my peace of mind
during my weekly Tuesday meal. She did the last thing I expected. She laughed.
"You
always this funny?"
Jesus
Christ, I thought, here we go can't wait to see how I screw this up. I gave
myself three and a half minutes before I somehow offended her and she left in a
huff.
"Yeah
I'm a living joke," I replied.
"My
name's Holly. What's yours?"
I
told her my name was Nick then filled my mouth with the last bits of hash browns
left on my plate then I glanced at my watch. One min. to go before I figured
she'd storm out of here ruing the decision to eat across form me. She talked a little more as she polished off her dinner.
The waitress came by to refill my coffee.
It was my third cup, two more and I would be out the door, that's how it
goes on Tuesdays. Two eggs, hash browns and 5 cups of mud then out the door with
an "I have important matters
to deal with" kind of way but in reality I go home and wash my clothes.
During
that last little inner dialogue she kept on talking to me and oddly enough I
retained most of it. She's and
artist and stumbles in here after work a few times a week
to sit and watch. I was her
second favorite exhibit, the first was an old man who always sits at the counter
and paid entirely too much attention to his bad toupee.
Glancing at my watch I noticed that 15 min have gone by since I figured
on her splitting. I figured it was
almost time for me to say something. I
don't enjoy talking about myself but there appeared no way out this time.
"So
what do you do?" she asked, and appeared to really care about what I would
offer as an answer.
"I'm
a pianist." I told the truth , that is to say I made a mistake.
Women always find that, coupled with my bizarre eating habits and
Disturbing circadian rhythms to be intriguing. This often leads to their utter
and complete disappointment when they find out how boring I am. I should have
told her I was a fire eater.
"Really?"
she replied.
"No."
I quickly inserted "I'm a fire eater"
She
laughed again....a laughing girl? It was like talking to some strange other
worldly beyond the moon woman. I'm used to them screaming and complaining but
not laughing, oddly enough I found myself enjoying this verbal exchange. Too bad
I only had one more cup of coffee left before I cashed out and went home.
After
her mild guffawing subsided I lit a cigarette and mulled over whether or not I
should screw the dirty clothes and invite her to my dump for a drink. I was
afraid I would say "want to come over to my place for a drink?"
and she would hear: "Lets go back to my house so I can try to fuck
you." Years of dealing with
women have proved to me that it is impossible to clearly communicate with them,
they seem to always be searching for things that aren't there in words and
phrases that they fail to fully comprehend.
"I'd
love to." she said.
"Love
to what?" I answered.
"Go
back to your place and have a drink. But don't think that's an invite to fuck
me."
She
smiled in a way that somehow managed to look sincere.
I settled our tab and we left. Rooked into paying for her dinner.
Good thing it was Tuesday.
Copyright©2000 Tony
Volpone and Jim McGinley