Notes From The Dark Corner Of A Sunny Room…
Hot, stifling, moisture running down yr back, rivulets – where grown men sweat 24 hours a day and there’s no reprieve from the oppressive heat and you can do little but drink and sit, mulling things over and reliving things already done and put to bed, drink and sit.
A shot and a beer, a mumble, but he knows what yr saying and he puts a dirty shot glass down in front of you and fills it with that pungent brown liquid, a long-necked bottle of beer, brewed downstairs, already warming, the fan above doing nothing but pushing hot air around. Dusty boots and battered notebooks – Don’t put it on the bar, it’ll soak up the dregs from a thousand drunks, what are you thinking? I don’t fucking care, come on, there are dregs there anyway, what’s the problem?
You need to get up and move man, come on now, why the dirge and the derailment? Where’s yr drive? I left it in San Francisco man, that’s where it is, I don’t remember where exactly, but it’s there, fermenting and frolicking in the dust of times gone by, ha. It’s not actually, it’s in yr hip pocket – GET IT OUT man, come on.
A shot and beer, more of a mumble and he looks at you like he knows, but a wave of yr hand, keep ‘em coming. Hot, stifling, sweat running down yr back, three hookers in the corner with nothing better to do than bicker and bitch, I ain’t interested in that. Shit man, we’ve gotta move sometime, we can’t sit here forever – The street outside is even hotter, the air doesn’t move, yr drowning in it and there’s dust and people, thousands of people, running and dawdling and fucking around, getting in the way; at least here I can get some peace.
Looking for something, sailor? I ain’t no sailor. Go away, yr disturbing the peace, find someone with less scruples than I and bilk them out of their hard-earned, I don’t have any anyway, I’ve got nothing but heat stroke and a bad attitude, a shot and a beer. No my friend, too much – why don’t you let him take you home, you need to get up and move anyway, where’s yr drive? It’s not in San Francisco, that’s fer damn sure. What the hell would you know? Bar stool on the floor, tipped over backwards…notebook on the floor too, dregs and scraps, cigarette butts and whiskey glasses, swirling and turning and fuck it anyway, I don’t need this, I’m going somewhere else.
Where are you going man, you can’t just wander out, what’s the plan? There is no plan, who the hell makes plans man, come on, lets just do it, bring my notebook, get me one for the road, I just opened my hip pocket, and look what the hell I found? Drive man, come on, lets go, the time is ripe, buy the ticket, take the ride, only the fast and quick of wit will Survive. Now is the time, come on, the dust and the heat are waiting for us.
Hot, stifling, sweat running down yr back, where grown men sweat 24 hours a day and there’s no rest for the wicked, for the weary, for the faint of heart, we must go NOW.