Missing Persons. Units of Time.
The neighborhood is gentrifying, which isn't saying much when gentrification is a Payless Shoes and a Wallgreens Pharmacy. His apartment is too cold for the season, and his bed seems too lonely for having the woman he loves at his side, which is to say nothing about his love for her and only about the situation.
Merely, it is insomnia. He puts his pants back on and relaces his boots. He turns off the lights that are on, turns on the lights that are off, and steps out into July, in all its oppressive mugginess, for a bike ride.
His bike is novelty, but he rides it out of necessity. He's not ready to try a real one and besides, it's paid for.
He hates and loves the hood, for its 24-hour taquerias, it's thrift and dollar stores, and the galleries that perpetually fail, only to be replaced by more of the same. Nobody's willing to spend money here, the landlords don't even want it, but it's still changes with the ebb and flow of white flight. A little bit at a time, than a lot, then a little, and then more.
The night is quiet, unusually so for a Friday, but it seems as though he knows everyone of the street. The bums are all gone, but where have they gone? Has the hood changed that much since dinner? ___ drinks from a paper bag and pesters a tour bus in front of the theatre. The pair of feet on the dash signal that the band has gone to bed and lends credence to the notion that you can't get drugs from this city if you're not from here. ___ and _______ drive around in a Mini Cooper, looking unfulfilled, but willing to give one more place a chance. ______ drives South on a Vespa, determined. Anyone he doesn't know compliments his bike. He exhausts his adress book. The phone wilts. He wipes his brow, thinking about how much he hates hipsters.
He turns around. All he wants are candy and soda, and maybe a new day.
He has surrounded himself with things he doesn't like, because he is just that, the same as that which he derides.
He wakes up to a Saturday in July, typical in its laziness and revelry, it's fanfare and brotherhood. There is sexual tension and even sex. There is play violence and politics. Everything that he consumes is bad for him. He purges in an alley to ease the ride home. The sunrise is as beautiful as any sunrise, despite his weary eyes and rotten smell.
In a dream he rejoins his closest and most long-lost friends. He finds them at a street fair, after searching a different street fair to find them. They are in a booth, playing middle eastern instruments as people mock belly dance outside. ___ waves from behind a set of turntables. She has no time to talk.
He watches aghast as a middle aged guy with green tattoos curling around the corners of his mouth tries to pick up on two new friends, both underaged. When the man's wife arrives, she seems less open than he has advertised, and warns, "You'll kill them, just like you've killed her," and she hands him a dead baby. She has a whole bag more. "Just like you've killed them all." There are at least a dozen.
He surprises himself, waking up early, and attempting to scrub away the hardness of his hangover. He has a new mind, but it has learned nothing from the last two days, and works exactly the same as the old mind. He sheds his face ad grooms the pink one beneath. He is the king of the space age hangover, he tells himself, and he almost looks human.
Merely, it is insomnia. He puts his pants back on and relaces his boots. He turns off the lights that are on, turns on the lights that are off, and steps out into July, in all its oppressive mugginess, for a bike ride.
His bike is novelty, but he rides it out of necessity. He's not ready to try a real one and besides, it's paid for.
He hates and loves the hood, for its 24-hour taquerias, it's thrift and dollar stores, and the galleries that perpetually fail, only to be replaced by more of the same. Nobody's willing to spend money here, the landlords don't even want it, but it's still changes with the ebb and flow of white flight. A little bit at a time, than a lot, then a little, and then more.
The night is quiet, unusually so for a Friday, but it seems as though he knows everyone of the street. The bums are all gone, but where have they gone? Has the hood changed that much since dinner? ___ drinks from a paper bag and pesters a tour bus in front of the theatre. The pair of feet on the dash signal that the band has gone to bed and lends credence to the notion that you can't get drugs from this city if you're not from here. ___ and _______ drive around in a Mini Cooper, looking unfulfilled, but willing to give one more place a chance. ______ drives South on a Vespa, determined. Anyone he doesn't know compliments his bike. He exhausts his adress book. The phone wilts. He wipes his brow, thinking about how much he hates hipsters.
He turns around. All he wants are candy and soda, and maybe a new day.
He has surrounded himself with things he doesn't like, because he is just that, the same as that which he derides.
He wakes up to a Saturday in July, typical in its laziness and revelry, it's fanfare and brotherhood. There is sexual tension and even sex. There is play violence and politics. Everything that he consumes is bad for him. He purges in an alley to ease the ride home. The sunrise is as beautiful as any sunrise, despite his weary eyes and rotten smell.
In a dream he rejoins his closest and most long-lost friends. He finds them at a street fair, after searching a different street fair to find them. They are in a booth, playing middle eastern instruments as people mock belly dance outside. ___ waves from behind a set of turntables. She has no time to talk.
He watches aghast as a middle aged guy with green tattoos curling around the corners of his mouth tries to pick up on two new friends, both underaged. When the man's wife arrives, she seems less open than he has advertised, and warns, "You'll kill them, just like you've killed her," and she hands him a dead baby. She has a whole bag more. "Just like you've killed them all." There are at least a dozen.
He surprises himself, waking up early, and attempting to scrub away the hardness of his hangover. He has a new mind, but it has learned nothing from the last two days, and works exactly the same as the old mind. He sheds his face ad grooms the pink one beneath. He is the king of the space age hangover, he tells himself, and he almost looks human.
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