Thu, 19 May 2005

i am now okay with being stupid
Mark came over, without Escho, and it hasn’t just been Mark and I hanging out in forever, so it was a bit weird, and maybe that’s why we went right to the pipe and the bottle, old habits in a decaying tape loop now fuzzy and distorted, and that’s all we ever wanted. We sat up watching black and white movies with the sound off, giggling at improvised dialogue until even that seemed too much, then giggling just at the image, the poses and postures and costumes. “I should start dressing like that,” Mark said, and I agreed, and so at four in the morning we went out to find suits. We had maybe twelve bucks between us, and we were cognizant that the transaction would be difficult, but we were certain we could convince the local tailor that our plan was of such certain necessity that he would gladly lend his name and wares to our arc toward fame and fortune. Struck dumb by inspiration, I froze in my tracks, long enough that the snow snuck into my boots, and told Mark that I knew a guy who had lots of suits and was Mark’s size. This guy, I did not tell him, was the husband of my onetime girlfriend, the both of them content to draw close in a shared hatred of what I now was, and that he would throw us from the roof and into a pile of broken glass he’d break himself just for the occasion as give Mark use of his suits. I knew I could work this, and in the process I’d convince Michelle that I was not the person she thought I was, not that I wanted her back (may shrews nest in my rectum before I go through that hell again) but because I cherished the idea of zinging her one last time, making her doubt a bit, oh my heavens that would be sweet. It was a twenty minute walk to Michelle and Steve’s place, cutting across the abandoned K-Mart and a park with all the playground equipment pulled out, and plus another ten minutes of getting high again in someone’s backyard with the dog silently staring at us from behind the fence, so that the sun was just starting to rise when we knocked on the front door. No one answered, so we went around the back and knocked on that door, and Mark said okay wait, this is the right house? These people actually have suits? Because even if it is not the people that we believe are in possession of the suits, correct, they may have other suits of which we might make a use out of, and he had some other thing to say but we never got around to it because suddently Steve opened the door and hit me right in the mouth. Mark is not a big guy, and he probably sees less physical activity than I do, but he’ll surprise you, and he sure surprised Steve, as by the time I got back up to my feet Mark was kicking the shit out of Steve, prone and fetal on his kitchen floor. I screamed “Now! Get the suits!” and the two of us darted in and ran upstairs, looking for the bedroom, and that’s when I saw Michelle standing in the bathroom, the door open, the toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. “Not a muscle!” I screamed, my voice cracking from all the excitement and the exhaustion of running up a full flight of stairs. Mark and I ran into the bathroom and rushed through the closet, finding two suit jackets and what looked like a nice pair of slacks, and we headed back to the stairs, tripping over Steve, still spread out on the floor, on our way back through the kitchen. As we ran out the back door and into the street, I stopped again, looked back and saw Michelle staring out the bathroom window. I tried to strike one of those classy poses like we saw in the movies earlier, but I don’t think it came out exactly right, and I yelled “I zinged you good on that one! Choke on it!” and caught up with Mark, who was taking off his clothes in the middle of the street to see if the suit fit.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #