All short sleeved Tennessee Homecoming ’86 over here: overcome with sweaty bright colours and do-it-yourself burrito kits (space-aged), meaty backyard barbeques in evening warmth, reading the New Yorker aloud before bed and finding a new place for May 1st in the heart of downtown. I paid the damage deposit this morning. I’ll be living on Broad Street--in a well lit, huge bachelor, if stalking is your thing. Hey yeah: it's mine--let's connect, pull resources, scheme, scheme. I have a little less than a week to find adequate furnishing. Friday is a day off, which means, essentially, a fullout pilgrimage about town—looking for something new to sleep on. I’ve clicked on the OCD channel, pleated skirts and brown maryjanes pulled from the closet again—because, you know: IT’S WARM ENOUGH TO BARE-LEG IT ALL DAY EVERYDAY, NOW. Yeah. Let's do this, rhymes universal.
Check your rearview mirror for adequate levels of gossip, non-residential properties, books you meant to open a week ago--slow starts. Drinkwater road, coldsore mistaken for lip cancer, Hornal just ahead. Front street. Work is people telling me about the snow melting before their eyes on the other side of the window they're sitting in front of. On the other end of the line, the Red Lion's receptionist puts me on hold by pressing the phone against her breast and it's like I'm in a creaking boat, listening in through the hull, the receiver's mouthpiece crackling friction against her mohair. I’m under the gun; I spend some time guessing their fabrics in a giant swell, tide moving out--maybe it's lambswool. I want to tell her I lost my virginity to a sailor with blond curls and later he came to visit me here and we fucked in her hotel and three days later it burned down but I don't say anything because everyone knows it was just a biker gang that had lighters and got angry and I would get in shit besides and I got in shit not two shifts ago for not sounding peppy enough on the phone--You know. You have to sound . . .UP. Well, I usually do, but now you're trying to get me to coerce people into talking about their mortgages and credit unions at nine in the evening. It's really not fun for anyone. I don't like the ones that like what I'm saying. I don't like the ones that find it fun. Creep me right out. I come home early because I’m speaking the script with my eyes closed, only prying my lids to see if I got the scale number just mentioned right each time. I explain to the respondents on the other end of the line that some of the questions strictly pertain to methodology, have nothing to do with their particular property. They have trouble understanding this, as they've just rated five statements that did concern their properties. Meanwhile, Jaxon moves around the space, talking to himself with me in it. He vocalizes every perception like a bingo caller on his last shift at the hall--waiting for someone to call a winner between his shuffles, the chocolate in his noodles, I’ll have to do this again. It’s cheap, but I’ll have to do this again. I interrupt with phrases that have nothing to do with the conversation he’s having with himself. One of us is uncouth here. A5, you say? Bingo. I walk from room to room with piles of clothes and he barely makes it through the speech he’s giving the dragon collection on his shelf. Breaking some contract of admiration with their scales, dead-man nostrils arranged and still, scanning places for flames. He works out the twist in his next chain clasp through mumbles not quite directed at any particular object. To me he says And what do you think of the clasp on this chain, if you don’t mind my asking? I answer him. Apparently, I don't mind him asking. It works, I say. It works. One of us is being too neutral. I walk into the bedroom and close the door. He’s now talking to the TV commercials. It’s fairly close to a two-sided conversation, with medium, though no particular message. OK. Two-sided--I give him that much, as I drone him out with my nose in modern fiction. In the bedroom, I’m happy. I’m happy enough that I spoon black current jam straight from the jar, only understanding what I’m reading. Everything else sounds from the next room, his voice the subtle squeak of heels slipping in the shower, indoor light twelve feet above my head. I think something in this will make me forget my laundry. Something in this will make me forget my laundry and I’m on the second load. I’m thinking about all the coat hangers I’ll have to buy in two weeks. I picked up (re, stole) the paper today, made a shortlist of places to call in the morning. I have no time and space to write because he plays video games for sixteen hours a day or more in the room I usually write in. He doesn't tell me how long he's been playing unless I ask. And it pains me to ask. Anyway, I can't write: the biggest factor motivating me to seriously start looking for another location. I spent a part of this weekend snorting coke while listening to classical music spin under a record's needle. I never foresaw my life coming together so well. Sure, stand your ground, keep standing your ground. But just try and find a trace of sarcasm in anything I’ve said. A fine line, hot under the collar.
A man bowed to me behind the cubicles at work today, and I knew why-the least subtle thing of all. It wasn’t love, or religion, an argument for the better of the two, furniture that looks like it’s been ripped from your fingernails. Long for rolls of bathwater, creases in black pants, a pink bra draped over the keyboard on the floor. I put my laundry off like any decent person with handfuls of conversations about life support systems. Takes just enough to find one shirt to wear until closing time.