You can read part one of this entry here.
I come to sitting on the living room couch. It’s time to leave for work. Despite the clouds outside the tall windows and high ceilings in the loft allow for plenty of ambient light. It’s almost too bright. The apartment is disgusting. You can clearly see a sheen of dirt on the hardwood floors. My rush is over. Not that it was all that much of a rush to begin with. I’m in maintenance mode. I shot just about a half a bag of dope a couple of hours ago. Which is really not very much, but it’s the state of the state these days. It beats withdrawal.
Continue reading “Christmas Is Coming – part 2”
Saturday morning I emerge from my tomb-like bedroom into the living room. Will is sitting on the couch in his underwear. He’s lithe and strong with no body fat. I wouldn’t want to have to fight him, but then I pretty much don’t want to fight anyone. I’ve seen him and his brother go at it. They both gave as good as they got and fought each other to an draw – it looked exhausting and painful – not to mention pointless. Continue reading “Fire in the Hole”
Because it’s a snow emergency we are home from school for the day. Winter sunlight fills the dusty, cold living room. It’s ridiculously bright and makes the green, aqua-ish colored carpet glow like it was radioactive. The old wood windows with distorted hand-blown glass panes have no shades over them. The snow on the ground outside, the late morning sun and the shadeless windows make it almost impossible to see the TV. My younger brother and I are watching the “Price is Right.”
Continue reading “The Pilgrims Were Fucking Idiots”
Marnie looks fucking unbelievable as she steps from the shadows into the late afternoon sunlight. She’s gorgeous; a goddess in red crêpe creepers and a floral print dress. She‘s happy to see me and shows it, with a smile that envelops her zit-free, porcelain face. The smile is a gift and if I’m struck dead at this moment I feel as if I will have served my purpose in life. As we walk, I do my best to not look over at her. I want to reach across those electric 3 inches between us and hold her hand. Instead I just stare down at my high-top Nikes. Continue reading “A Goddess in Red Crêpe Creepers”
Disclaimer: This is a long entry (4600 + words), unless you’ve got a few minutes and like stories about LSD in cemeteries it might be best to start with another entry…
“Face it. You’re a pussy. You’re scared,” Sean says. He’s obviously attempting to goad me into going inside the tomb. It’s not going to work though. I won’t let him trick me. I’m not going in that creepy-ass, little room.
Sean is my friend, but I need to remember he’s also a major prick. He’s the kind of guy that abuses people for fun and for some reason I usually do what he says. I hate that he can often quite easily, get me to do what he wants. I’m not going to fall for his shit this time though. I’m not gonna cave. Continue reading “Crypt Keeper”
When I was twelve years old, I fancied myself a serviceable breakdancer. This was before the existence of the Alfonso Ribeiro’s “Breaking & Popping” video with accompanying breakdance board. Oh fuck it, why lie? I knew I was terrible. Continue reading “My Breakdancing Triumph”
The lunch truck, aka “the roach coach” pulls up around 11 every weekday morning. The diabetic old man that drives the thing, honks its horn – which sounds like that Mexican cartoon character, “Speedy Gonzales” – to let us know he’s arrived. Everyone comes out from their cubicles and offices and rushes down the fire exit stairwell. They stay orderly but there is no mistaking the very serious intention here. The entire company pours out into the parking lot and swarms the truck. Continue reading “Sully’s Dead”
My mother is like an uber-preppie. She loves the little New England town we live in; our rickety little saltbox home and the fact that everything around here dates back to when Hezekiah Maplethorpe buried his only son. That would be the child that died of scurvy back in the terrible winter of seventeen-whothefuckcares. It says so right on the rock buried in the dirt over there. That kind of shit doesn’t do much for me. Not that I think about it, really. Continue reading “Small town, Small minds”
It’s the fall of 1984. I’m 13 years old and in adolescent purgatory. All I can do is wait to get older. I’m stuck in the suburbs when I know for a fact I’m meant to be living in the city. Boston is the city I know best and where we (my mother, brother and I) moved from 5 years ago. I wish we could move back. New York would be even better. In NY I could learn all the real hoodlum tricks. But it’s not to be, at least not for now. I’m stuck living in the sticks. Continue reading “Everything Means a Lot…”