Indefinite Length, Part 1
26. Feb. 2018
The beginning, as usual, was preceded by the end of something else. Sunset, moon rise. Your Friendly Neighborhood Bar & Grille™ went dark, and the last person to leave locked the door and didn't light a cigarette, but thought about it. Charlee wore an overcoat, not anticipating rain or cold but enjoying the concealing bulk of it, the extra pockets, the pretentiousness. The fact that it didn't have a logo on the breast. Charlee took pains to make no eye contact with the few other people on the sidewalk, focusing inward and seeing the environment from far away. Don't step on that trash. Don't run into the hydrant. Don't think about the night you spent in jail 18 years ago. Don't forget you need to call the landlord about the blocked drain, can't use the bathroom sink, standing water, stagnant muck of hair and spit and toothpaste and picked scabs. Real people aren't beautiful, real people have spots. Don't think about your spots.
The sidewalk gave up just past a bus stop, in front of a rolling lawn which led down to a white-shingled Cape Cod, and Charlee continued through damp grass, technically trespassing but unwillingly to walk in the gutter. Urban suburbia. A driver's delight, a walker's dismay. The streetlights turned everything to peach fuzz, draining leaf and house and litter of their boundaries. It was easy to imagine an alien landscape, to imagine that we were the aliens, imposing our inventions and improvements on the native products of natural selection. Charlee watched the tail-lights of passing cars and felt a rush of certainty that they were our spaceships, and then decided that machines and sodium lights were products of evolution just as much as the light-bending feathers of a male peacock, which looked blue but weren't. Magic. Trickery. Strides forward in the name of self-interest. Charlee strode forward in the name of self-interest. Having an apartment to go home to at night was a sound evolutionary strategy, just one small tick in the "likely to successfully procreate" column. The artful illusion of seeming to have your shit together.
Don't think about the fact that you don't have your shit together.
|Kim Breeding-Mercer - Indefinite Length, Part 1|
IN WHICH: Your Friendly Neighborhood Bar & Grille™ went dark, and the last person to leave locked the door and didn't light a cigarette, but thought about it.
© Kim Breeding-Mercer / OgFOMK ArTS -- 2018 All Rights Reserved. - "Indefinite Length, Part 1"
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