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Blip Bleep Blip.
The wooden chair creaks as he leans back into it. The feeble legs bow with the adjustment.
“Just a regular guy. I don’t know.”
The wall behind him is a dark lime, the color of spinach baby food when it comes out the other side of the tunnel that is digestion. The phone held steadily in place by one hand and the cradle held between his legs with the other.
“I—I don’t know. What do you want to know?”
Little blips of response through the grated earpiece. The tie hanging loosely from his neck, a mosaic of different colors. Picasso’s rainbow.
“Well, I own three albums. A dining set I inherited from my parents. A mattress and a bookshelf. I like—” More blips, “Oh. Well, I’m about five-ten, five-eleven with brown hair and dark eyes.”
Blips. The office shoes next to the chair legs are reflective and judging. His eyes fall on these and in these.
“Yeah. I know the story.” Blips. “Sinatra, Beatles, and…”
Raising his head, he looks toward his mattress on the hard wooden floor. The white sheets tucked neatly underneath the pillows.
“…and Sinatra.” He whispers into the handle. Bleeps.
“Yeah, same album too. I don’t know why.”
A steady pause and a deep breath. Hunkered down above his knees again, he’s lost in the grain of the wood between his wooly socks.
“How clean is my bathroom?” Eye brows clenched tight, he scoffs, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Blip Bleep Blip.
“Well…I bleach the tiles and clear the pipes with Drano once a week. I remove the showerhead once a month and clean out the rust and chlorine and replace the head if I have to. I have one mat on the floor and I wash that once a week, as well.” Another deep breath.
“Yeah, I leave with a headache most of the time.”
He gets up and begins to pace back and forth in front of the wooden table, his socks catching on protruding nails.
“No, I get out a fair amount.” He says, looking towards the window in his steady pace back and forth. The streetlights are dim and the cars beneath it are quiet.
“Friday and Saturday? You know, I go to the movies,” The pace is paused, “and hang out and stuff.”
Blips. Sharp blips like needles in the ear.
“Yeah, I go alone sometimes. What’s wrong with going alone? I see a lot of people there alone.”
He sits back down in the wooden chair and the familiar creak of the wood greets his weight. His heated eyes look to the mattress on the floor. To the imprint still left on the left side, then to the right side which he made up this morning. The corners a little bit askew, crawling under his skin, crawling into his mind.
“No—what? Of course I get popcorn and soda.”
His leg, wrapped in slacks, bouncing up and down.
“What do you mean do I hold them close? How am I supposed to hold them?”
Jumping to his feet, he begins to pace again. The wooden chair tipping on two legs to the side, barrels over and crashes against the wooden floor.
“Well, WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO HOLD ONTO?!”
Click.
The streetlights above the empty street have a subtle fog about them. Light plays against the window panes and the cradle is heavy in hand. There’s work to be done anyway; the bathroom’s a mess.
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"You don't die enough to cry." - Kerouac
Last edited by Loki : 12-30-2005 at 01:28 AM.
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