January 3

STORY WITH NO TITLE, DAY 3

Hey, sorry about that.  I said I would get back to you but I didn’t.  Don’t know what came over me.  So here’s the deal.  I’m looking for a few “contributors” to the new non-profit.  You remember.  The one to protect all the bugs.  It’s a real issue.

The other day, when I was cruising the street, looking for action, I ran past this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and there hanging in the window, now get ready for this, was a strip of flypaper.  It was disgusting.  Completely loaded with dead bugs.  But that wasn’t the worst part.  There was a bunch still buzzing away making the whole strip flutter, like maybe they could just fly off.  I didn’t have the heart to tell them they were going nowhere.  I just kept running.

I was actually on my way to the Jazz concert.  I go every year.  They were featuring Thelonious Monk.  Man, can that guy hammer the keys.  I was grooving, snapping my fingers to the beat.  Okay, so I don’t really have fingers but I was snapping them anyway.  You know what I’m saying?  It was good.

During intermission, I heard this fellow telling how he would travel all across the country playing in bars wherever he could find one to hire him.  Some were pretty bad.  He would put out his hat and hope for the best.  Sometimes he did okay and sometimes he got nothing.  The bartender would feel sorry for him and give him a drink or something.  So, one time, he looked in the glass, and there, at the bottom, was a dead cockroach!  Can you believe it?  He wasn’t talking to me, I was just listening in, but I got sick just the same and heaved right there on the table.  Thank god nobody noticed.  They never do.

That was fucking awful. 

He said he drank it anyway.  What an idiot.

So, you see what I mean?  We got a real problem here and I need your help.

All his friends were banging the counter, laughing like it was a big joke, but that sent me bouncing across the table until I came dangerously close to one of those pounding fists.  It was super hard to maneuver with all the commotion.  It was like trying to run in an earthquake.  But I scooted to the edge and jumped just as some ‘well-meaning’ asshole spotted me.  We made eye contact.  I squinted, you know, gave him the evil eye, but he still took a swing at me.  I could have ended up like my comrades on the paper.  Instead I landed and ran.  That’s what I do.

I headed to the back, you know, to see what was happening.  And there he was, Theo jamming with his friend Coltrane.  They would play a few bars and stop and talk about the vibe, laugh and accuse each other of missing the beat.  They were hilarious.  I mean, think about it, two of the best, egging each other.  I was in tears.  I mean it – I was sobbing like a baby by the time they headed back on stage.  I couldn’t go back out there, I mean what if someone saw me, it would be embarrassing. 

Instead, I headed home.  Truth is, I’ve been avoiding the place for the most part, still feeling bad about “the incident”.  I mean, it hurt my feelings.  Now I just hang out alone after dark when he’s already off in bed.  Hardly see the guy anymore.  We had a good thing going and he screwed it up, didn’t he?

But it’s okay, you see.  Because that’s about him, not about me.  It’s like Kikegaard said, “One must first learn to know himself before knowing anything else.”  Or γνῶθι σεαυτόν, as the Greeks would say.  Whatever.

I don’t know if I should tell you this, but turns out his dog has been cheating on him.  The other day, out back, I saw it with my own eyes.  The mutt was humping some bitch in heat.  There were a couple of other guys hanging around, so maybe it wasn’t that big a deal.  I’m just saying.  Afterward, there he was, wagging his tail, just as sweet as ever, rubbing up against the brother’s leg, until he got some really nice dog food, just like nothing happened.  How is that for loyalty?  I mean, really.

But that’s not my business, is it?

I was feeling charged that night, what with the jazz still playing in my head, and all.  So I decided to kick back and read.  There was some brandy in a glass by the sink.  That goes with jazz, doesn’t it?  I took a couple shots and headed to the bookshelf.  Tonight I wanted something good, something on the edge.  Maybe Анна Каренина.  It’s a heavy book.  I got in behind it and started pushing.  Jesus!  It was like a fucking anchor. 

I kept pushing, moving the thing one painful millimeter at a time.  I’ll be the first to admit there was some grunting and cussing, but finally, with some wiggling, I got it to the edge, just to the point where I could start to feel it tip.  I like to ride a book when it falls to the floor, so hopped on as it started to slide, but the whole thing got hung up right at the end.  No problem.  I scampered out to the far edge and jumped up and down a few times.  Okay, I know what you are thinking, that’s crazy.  But it was worth it, right? 

Just then it let go.  Whoa! It was sudden and caught me off balance.  There we were headed for the floor, 9.8 meters per second per second.  And I am underneath the damn book!  Bam!  Ooof!  I couldn’t breathe.  Oh, jesus.  I millimetered myself carefully out from underneath the spine of Tolstoy and staggered into the light.  I’m no doctor, but it looked bad.  Bent antenna and a broken leg dangling by a piece of cartilage.

I’m off to the infirmary.  Talk to you later.