Music Banter - View Single Post

Wifey Boozer · 01-27-2009, 04:35 PM

A short story. Fiction, mostly.

I always loved your class, Mr. Holland. You always had this very highly-developed sense of humor.

- Mr. Holland’s Opus

We were sitting in my pay-by-the-week apartment in the Crime Figure’s watch-yo’-step-city. The overhead lights were the kind you’d see in a pool hall, and they hurt my eyes, so I always looked hung-over. Hair a mess from insomnia. Eyes hid with tinted lenses. Body always covered with layers - no heat. Cold feet, cold hands, cold heart - bad circulation. I was having black coffee, with just a spot of cream. And cigarettes.

She was having juice. I don’t know where the juice came from.

“Remember Russ? Well my mother kicked him out on his ear and said that I could never talk to him again. So he gave me earrings and said that he would love me forever and walked out.”

Where do these people come from? Where do they find me?

“I haven’t heard from him since last Saturday,” she frowned.

“Naturally. That’s 3 to 5, statutory rape. Not that I believe in that...”

Not that anyone ever listens.

“This royally sucks... I miss him so much. But when I move out...”

When did you get a job? How did you even get over here?

“He promised me that he would move in with me as soon as he found out where I lived.”

Who is this guy, J. Edgar Hoover? This always happens, with under-age relationships, and it never comes through. If old men’s promises meant anything I’d be at an OTB right now in South Carolina, and probably really missing my family. Or in a bar not missing anything. These are seperate occassions however, and I digress...

I just looked at her and blew smoke out the side. I looked down and she reached out, pathetic, for an answer. To her this was real.

“You want my advice?”

A pause. She knows me, she don’t know me that well, just enough to know I’ve got a few screws loose. A few cards short of a poker game. A few balls less than shootin’ straight. A few ants short of a poetic afternoon picnic. A few ounces short of a full swimming pool. A few pints short of a stocked bar. A few lines off of 20/20 vision. A few nails short of a sturdy foundation. A few cigarettes short of a pack. All that and then some.

I spoke, groggy, rambling. I unwittingly told her how to be me.

“Start chain smoking. Develop a healthy drinking habit... and an unhealthy narcotics one. Check yourself into rehab about 2 or 3 years after that. Write a book, almost get it published and have them revoke the contract right after that. Become bitter and highly develop a sense of dry humor. Develop a general disdain for people, and you'll feel comfortable. Grow a sac, get a job, start hating life, bite a bullet, find poetry, fuck god, and live your life.”

She ran out crying. I laughed. It was finally quiet.

I want to be a child psychologist. Specializing in children of addicts.

01-27-2009, 04:35 PM	#107 (permalink)
Wifey Boozer Meanie McFeany Join Date: Aug 2008 Location: Troy side'ah the dirt, NY Posts: 455	Riding Life Straight Into Perfect Laughter A short story. Fiction, mostly. I always loved your class, Mr. Holland. You always had this very highly-developed sense of humor. - Mr. Holland’s Opus We were sitting in my pay-by-the-week apartment in the Crime Figure’s watch-yo’-step-city. The overhead lights were the kind you’d see in a pool hall, and they hurt my eyes, so I always looked hung-over. Hair a mess from insomnia. Eyes hid with tinted lenses. Body always covered with layers - no heat. Cold feet, cold hands, cold heart - bad circulation. I was having black coffee, with just a spot of cream. And cigarettes. She was having juice. I don’t know where the juice came from. “Remember Russ? Well my mother kicked him out on his ear and said that I could never talk to him again. So he gave me earrings and said that he would love me forever and walked out.” Where do these people come from? Where do they find me? “I haven’t heard from him since last Saturday,” she frowned. “Naturally. That’s 3 to 5, statutory rape. Not that I believe in that...” Not that anyone ever listens. “This royally sucks... I miss him so much. But when I move out...” When did you get a job? How did you even get over here? “He promised me that he would move in with me as soon as he found out where I lived.” Who is this guy, J. Edgar Hoover? This always happens, with under-age relationships, and it never comes through. If old men’s promises meant anything I’d be at an OTB right now in South Carolina, and probably really missing my family. Or in a bar not missing anything. These are seperate occassions however, and I digress... I just looked at her and blew smoke out the side. I looked down and she reached out, pathetic, for an answer. To her this was real. “You want my advice?” A pause. She knows me, she don’t know me that well, just enough to know I’ve got a few screws loose. A few cards short of a poker game. A few balls less than shootin’ straight. A few ants short of a poetic afternoon picnic. A few ounces short of a full swimming pool. A few pints short of a stocked bar. A few lines off of 20/20 vision. A few nails short of a sturdy foundation. A few cigarettes short of a pack. All that and then some. I spoke, groggy, rambling. I unwittingly told her how to be me. “Start chain smoking. Develop a healthy drinking habit... and an unhealthy narcotics one. Check yourself into rehab about 2 or 3 years after that. Write a book, almost get it published and have them revoke the contract right after that. Become bitter and highly develop a sense of dry humor. Develop a general disdain for people, and you'll feel comfortable. Grow a sac, get a job, start hating life, bite a bullet, find poetry, fuck god, and live your life.” She ran out crying. I laughed. It was finally quiet. I want to be a child psychologist. Specializing in children of addicts. __________________ ... Stalin had a *FANTASTIC* moustache. Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain. [backintheubbr]