a man and a goat
Fifteen minutes til fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to leave, when I can actually leave. I put my phone back in my pocket, minimized Excel, and brought up the window with Gmail open.
I was narrating all my actions. Towards the end of the day, I start doing that; narrating in my head. I'm not sure if it makes time go that much quicker or that much slower, but it's habit.
Funny. Ten years ago, this would all sound like gibberish.
Excel. Gmail. Cell phones
It was not a new thought, I think my Mom said it a few months back, but I was mulling it over again.
I straightened out my shirt, buttoned the cuffs and put my coat on. I loosened the tie and readied a clove. Hell if I was gonna stay a second more than fifteen minutes before punchout. I save 20 days a year this way. Paid. Vacation time.
I squeezed by the secretary's desk. She gets to leave thirty minutes before she's supposed to leave. I hopped down the back stepsand popped the cigarette into my mouth. It was brown and looked as though it could have been chocolate. It was better.
I walked down to the ethnic deli on 43rd Street with the roaches and blood on the floor. I had my money out. Two twenties. He went to the back room and brought out a small goat. A lamb. It was about the size of a toaster, if a toaster had legs, and yellow from dirt and urine. I told myself not to name it.
"Do you have anything to walk it with?"
"No walk. Lamb."
"I know. Do you have, like, a leash? A LEASH?
"Leash? No carry?
"Too long a walk, plus he'll bite me."
"No car?"
"No."
He grumbled and grabbed the spool of twine he used to tie off bags of hogs' feet and carnitas. He made a knot around the animal's neck and cut off two feet of slack, handing it to me over the counter with both hands. I was surprised at how heavy it was, and how soft. It nudged at my thumb with its head. Don't name it, Byron. Just don't.
It was Friday, so we took the scenic route; through the park by the beach. I bought some popcorn from a guy with a cart, and fed Brody by hand (I named it Brody). When I was done, I put the bag on the ground for Brody to finish. I bought a newspaper from a kid who found it. It was sandy and the crossword puzzle was half-filled, the number puzzle too. I did the jumble. The answer was "henpecked". Brody chased orange and black monarchs, the last of the season. He caught one by the wing and shook it til it came off. What was that Jim Morisson song where he talks about "the screams of the butterfly"? It's subtle, only an acidhead could catch it. The wing looked like a flower petal as he crunched it on his tongue. It was time to go.
Walking South along the shore, you could see the bridge for miles. The sun was setting in pastel all around it but your eye was drawn to the bridge. It was iron and ugly, a leftover modernist design from the beginning of the last century.
At the foot was a squat man in overalls. He had two chins in profile, like a cliff jutting out from a sack of jelly. He had a nose like a fist and he squinted his eyes into little assholes behind a pair of spectacles. He had visible dirt on his coffee-stained hands and no shoes. He chewed a piece of straw; maybe it was wood.
He raised an eyebrow.
"One, please."
I bit my cheek, picked up the lamb and handed it to him with both hands. I thought the words goodbyebut I didn't speak. Before I could turn away, he ripped Brody's leg out of its socket and then clean off. Not clean at all really. Brody let out a series of sharp bleats. I'm pretty sure they were just out of pain but it sounded like cries for help. I bit harder, til my cheek bled.
I wish I hadn't named him.
Sometimes the goats would bite him and get away and die down by the river. I hoped that didn't happen to Brody. I hoped that the tolltaker'd snap Brody's neck and let him go quickly. I know he didn't because I heard him bleat and bleat the whole way across the bridge and later on in my dreams. It was cold and I shook all night under my blankets. I hate Fridays. I need to buy a car.
I was narrating all my actions. Towards the end of the day, I start doing that; narrating in my head. I'm not sure if it makes time go that much quicker or that much slower, but it's habit.
Funny. Ten years ago, this would all sound like gibberish.
Excel. Gmail. Cell phones
It was not a new thought, I think my Mom said it a few months back, but I was mulling it over again.
I straightened out my shirt, buttoned the cuffs and put my coat on. I loosened the tie and readied a clove. Hell if I was gonna stay a second more than fifteen minutes before punchout. I save 20 days a year this way. Paid. Vacation time.
I squeezed by the secretary's desk. She gets to leave thirty minutes before she's supposed to leave. I hopped down the back stepsand popped the cigarette into my mouth. It was brown and looked as though it could have been chocolate. It was better.
I walked down to the ethnic deli on 43rd Street with the roaches and blood on the floor. I had my money out. Two twenties. He went to the back room and brought out a small goat. A lamb. It was about the size of a toaster, if a toaster had legs, and yellow from dirt and urine. I told myself not to name it.
"Do you have anything to walk it with?"
"No walk. Lamb."
"I know. Do you have, like, a leash? A LEASH?
"Leash? No carry?
"Too long a walk, plus he'll bite me."
"No car?"
"No."
He grumbled and grabbed the spool of twine he used to tie off bags of hogs' feet and carnitas. He made a knot around the animal's neck and cut off two feet of slack, handing it to me over the counter with both hands. I was surprised at how heavy it was, and how soft. It nudged at my thumb with its head. Don't name it, Byron. Just don't.
It was Friday, so we took the scenic route; through the park by the beach. I bought some popcorn from a guy with a cart, and fed Brody by hand (I named it Brody). When I was done, I put the bag on the ground for Brody to finish. I bought a newspaper from a kid who found it. It was sandy and the crossword puzzle was half-filled, the number puzzle too. I did the jumble. The answer was "henpecked". Brody chased orange and black monarchs, the last of the season. He caught one by the wing and shook it til it came off. What was that Jim Morisson song where he talks about "the screams of the butterfly"? It's subtle, only an acidhead could catch it. The wing looked like a flower petal as he crunched it on his tongue. It was time to go.
Walking South along the shore, you could see the bridge for miles. The sun was setting in pastel all around it but your eye was drawn to the bridge. It was iron and ugly, a leftover modernist design from the beginning of the last century.
At the foot was a squat man in overalls. He had two chins in profile, like a cliff jutting out from a sack of jelly. He had a nose like a fist and he squinted his eyes into little assholes behind a pair of spectacles. He had visible dirt on his coffee-stained hands and no shoes. He chewed a piece of straw; maybe it was wood.
He raised an eyebrow.
"One, please."
I bit my cheek, picked up the lamb and handed it to him with both hands. I thought the words goodbyebut I didn't speak. Before I could turn away, he ripped Brody's leg out of its socket and then clean off. Not clean at all really. Brody let out a series of sharp bleats. I'm pretty sure they were just out of pain but it sounded like cries for help. I bit harder, til my cheek bled.
I wish I hadn't named him.
Sometimes the goats would bite him and get away and die down by the river. I hoped that didn't happen to Brody. I hoped that the tolltaker'd snap Brody's neck and let him go quickly. I know he didn't because I heard him bleat and bleat the whole way across the bridge and later on in my dreams. It was cold and I shook all night under my blankets. I hate Fridays. I need to buy a car.
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