I've uploaded the new formatted version and have started on HTRASG. It's a short book so is going a lot easier. then comes PM and I'm set for the rest of the year.
Just to pat myself on the back, here's another section of BC I'm proud of. It's after Bobby's suicide, and Eric's been shocked into realizing he helped bring it about. He's been sitting in his apartment for a week and is horrified at how the media and people who also pushed Bobby to his death are distancing themselves from it...and he has reached the point where he needs to either rebuild his life or follow Bobby into death.
---------------
The simple act of picking up trash helped me shift my focus back to reality. What I was doing wasn’t being trendily weary, nor was I happily drifting on a cloud of incoherence for all that time, gallantly allowing my mind a chance to heal in preparation for the rest of my life. The fact is, while watching the news I kept reliving everything that had happened over and over and over in a crazy hope that if I did it often enough, the outcome would change. If not for real, at least in my own head. I understand that’s a sign of insanity. That may well be true, but the fact was I could not honestly (and coherently) face the honest to God truth as regards my part in this disaster. Not just yet.
I finished filling my second Hefty bag and went to a window to see how the garbage looked, like I’d done so many times in the last couple of months for no particular reason. Funny thing is, for the first time the bin was empty. Nothing but leftover smudge to see. I carried both bags down the stairs and dumped them in then looked up just in time to make the trip worthwhile.
It was overcast and cool. A hint of winter rain was in the air. An almost breeze was tickling the tree just to my right. And a hummingbird danced past to play in the flowers on the bush to my left. I watched as he whirred and darted and checked out the buds and dipped in for a sip (at least, I think it was a he). His wings were almost invisible, they moved so fast, and he was a lovely combination of dark neon green and bright neon red, with hints of purple, blue and gold glimmering through and eyes like little black pearls. So tiny. So fragile. So busy with his life. So heartbreakingly beautiful. Then he stopped. He perched on a branch, breathing heavily, and looked back at me as if to ask, “What you lookin’ at, bub?” I grinned, still without thinking, and went back to my apartment.
I peeled off my shirt and jeans and everything and set the shower to going as hot as I could stand it. I let the water roll over my face and ‘cross my shoulders and down my back and stomach and legs. Then I leaned back against the side of the stall and let the steam rise and fill my lungs and heart and soul. I didn’t zone in there, though; deep down I knew the hot water would soon end and I’d have to finish in cold if I took too long. I absently began to lather up. Slowly, almost carefully, I cleaned every part of my body I could get to. I flashed back to the day after my encounter with Allen and the shower I never took after Doctor Finnerman and the SANE and nurse Pavel and Grant and Iglesias and my deep desperate need for the oblivion of sleep and everything else were done with me. I vaguely recognized the sense of non-urgent-urgency I’d had since that day was gone. I could simply luxuriate in the cleanliness of the soap. The beauty of the shimmer it left on my skin. The scent of it taking me back to a day before I’d been tainted. I shampooed, rinsed, repeated the actions, all by rote. And yet, not. This wasn’t like the time when Moritz had told me to bathe. This was just...well, it just felt nice. Wonderful. I finished the moment the water turned tepid. Perfect timing, for once.
I stepped out and wiped the condensation from the glass and looked at myself through the pattern of streaks and drops left behind. And I flashed back to that hotel room only two (three? four?) months prior and realized that was the last time I had seen myself in a mirror. Comparatively speaking, I looked neither better nor worse. It was like I’d gone into a holding pattern, waiting for clearance to continue my slide into hell or whatever fate I would allow for myself. But this time I could see more than just the deep disgusting differences in my psyche. My eyes were still hollow instead of bright, but they were also cold. My skin was pasty instead of rose hued, despite the hot shower, and it too was cold. I’d lost a few more pounds and it showed in how much deeper my cheeks sank. It was me at fifty before I was half that age. It was pathetic.
I ran some lukewarm water into the sink and shaved, something I’d never done naked before. I know it’s an odd thing to think about, but the thought simply came as a “never did that before” jog from my memory. I gently dried off with my one semi-clean towel, rolled some deodorant under my arms and strolled over to the closet.
I didn’t own a chest of drawers; all my underwear and socks and sweaters and foldable items of clothing were laid on a shelving unit shoved into one corner. I picked out a pair of briefs, a white t-shirt and pair of black socks and pulled them on, right there...something else I never did. Then I took the only clothes I had left on hangers — a white cotton shirt and that long forgotten pair of torn black Dockers — and slipped into those. The pants were loose, so I cinched the belt a notch tighter. Two notches. Doing that helped hide the damage to the material enough to where if you weren’t looking for it, you’d never see it. I found my black shoes (the ones that were always tied) and shoved my feet into them, then I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I still had not one bit of thought or emotion at seeing this “crystal-chic” type freak staring back.
I got my wallet, got my car keys, gave Jag a pat on the head and left.
My Volvo started up on the first try and I pulled away. I still had zero idea of where I was going or what I was doing. I just drove. East down Pico. Under the 405. Past Westside Pavilion. Over the tiny hill by Beverly Glen. Straight to Fairfax. Left toward the Hills. Passing Ethiopian and Jewish shops and restaurants, then passing the museums and Farmer’s Market and the humongous Grove shopping center and CBS and Canter’s up to Melrose. Then right to head down the strip.
The high school was busy. Traffic had yet to be jammed with the lunchtime crush. Meters were open everywhere. I stopped at one, plunked in a quarter and walked along. There were a few tourists looking around with disappointment at how sedate Melrose seemed, even with its wall murals and occasional head shops. “It just ain’t like Haight-Ashbury, Oliver, that’s fer dang sure.”
I turned down a side street and turned, again, to head down the alley. And two doors down stood Rene’s thirty year-old Mercedes carefully parked in one of the two parking slots. The aroma of his lunch preparation danced up to greet me like it was overjoyed to see the prodigal son.
“So this is where I’m going,” I thought as I wandered up to the door.
I looked in...and there was Rene, unchanged, dipping his finger into a pot to test the sauce. Steam swirled around him and tickled through the silver hair that still flew out from under his chef’s cap. He wasn’t happy with what he found, so he grabbed a pinch of this and a dab of that to fling into the pot. Then he stirred the sauce. And saw me. His expression did not change, nor did he hesitate in his stirring; he just glanced me over.
I gulped, my mind a blank, my mouth dry. But then words began popping out, soft, croaking, whispers of, “I’m sorry. I left you in a bad spot. No excuse. I’m so sorry.”
He checked another pot, still casting little glances at me. It needed a dash more salt.
I kept babbling. “I’m going out to get another job. If I can. I think I’m pretty good at waiting tables. I — I was hoping I could — well, could I give you as a reference? I know it’s asking a lot — but I need to — to...”
Rene motioned me in; I entered. He pointed me to his ratty little table covered with paperwork and such; I sat in the one chair. He pulled down a plate, put some Ravioli Caruso on it and set it before me; I stared at it. Silverware wrapped in a tacky red napkin appeared by my right hand; I looked up at him.
“Rene...”
“Eat,” was all he said, then he turned back to his pots.
I ate. Slowly. Tasting every bite. Loving it. No, luxuriating in it. The warmth of it drifted into my stomach and gently spread into my heart then through my whole body. Oh, sweet Jesus, it was Heaven, purest Heaven. I licked the plate clean, and I mean that literally.
When I was done, Rene appeared by my side, again. “I can use you Tuesday, Thursday lunch, Friday, Sunday night.”
I felt like I’d been slapped with cold water. Did he say what I thought he said? “Here? But I — I — didn’t...”
“Can you work lunch, today?”
“Yes.”
“I need a host. We have a big party coming. You park on the street?”
“Meter.”
“Put it by my car. This time only. Then prep the tables. Laila is alone until noon. Again.”
He turned back to his pots. I couldn’t move. I was afraid that if I did, I’d see nothing but my dreary four walls instead of these happy steaming pots and hear my pissy neighbors instead of the plinks and plops of Rene’s cuisine nearing perfection and smell the cabbage crap Mrs. Vanden was cooking instead of the insanely gorgeous aromas combining in this tiny kitchen. Then Rene looked at me and gave me an irritated flip of his hand to tell me to go.
Just to pat myself on the back, here's another section of BC I'm proud of. It's after Bobby's suicide, and Eric's been shocked into realizing he helped bring it about. He's been sitting in his apartment for a week and is horrified at how the media and people who also pushed Bobby to his death are distancing themselves from it...and he has reached the point where he needs to either rebuild his life or follow Bobby into death.
---------------
The simple act of picking up trash helped me shift my focus back to reality. What I was doing wasn’t being trendily weary, nor was I happily drifting on a cloud of incoherence for all that time, gallantly allowing my mind a chance to heal in preparation for the rest of my life. The fact is, while watching the news I kept reliving everything that had happened over and over and over in a crazy hope that if I did it often enough, the outcome would change. If not for real, at least in my own head. I understand that’s a sign of insanity. That may well be true, but the fact was I could not honestly (and coherently) face the honest to God truth as regards my part in this disaster. Not just yet.
I finished filling my second Hefty bag and went to a window to see how the garbage looked, like I’d done so many times in the last couple of months for no particular reason. Funny thing is, for the first time the bin was empty. Nothing but leftover smudge to see. I carried both bags down the stairs and dumped them in then looked up just in time to make the trip worthwhile.
It was overcast and cool. A hint of winter rain was in the air. An almost breeze was tickling the tree just to my right. And a hummingbird danced past to play in the flowers on the bush to my left. I watched as he whirred and darted and checked out the buds and dipped in for a sip (at least, I think it was a he). His wings were almost invisible, they moved so fast, and he was a lovely combination of dark neon green and bright neon red, with hints of purple, blue and gold glimmering through and eyes like little black pearls. So tiny. So fragile. So busy with his life. So heartbreakingly beautiful. Then he stopped. He perched on a branch, breathing heavily, and looked back at me as if to ask, “What you lookin’ at, bub?” I grinned, still without thinking, and went back to my apartment.
I peeled off my shirt and jeans and everything and set the shower to going as hot as I could stand it. I let the water roll over my face and ‘cross my shoulders and down my back and stomach and legs. Then I leaned back against the side of the stall and let the steam rise and fill my lungs and heart and soul. I didn’t zone in there, though; deep down I knew the hot water would soon end and I’d have to finish in cold if I took too long. I absently began to lather up. Slowly, almost carefully, I cleaned every part of my body I could get to. I flashed back to the day after my encounter with Allen and the shower I never took after Doctor Finnerman and the SANE and nurse Pavel and Grant and Iglesias and my deep desperate need for the oblivion of sleep and everything else were done with me. I vaguely recognized the sense of non-urgent-urgency I’d had since that day was gone. I could simply luxuriate in the cleanliness of the soap. The beauty of the shimmer it left on my skin. The scent of it taking me back to a day before I’d been tainted. I shampooed, rinsed, repeated the actions, all by rote. And yet, not. This wasn’t like the time when Moritz had told me to bathe. This was just...well, it just felt nice. Wonderful. I finished the moment the water turned tepid. Perfect timing, for once.
I stepped out and wiped the condensation from the glass and looked at myself through the pattern of streaks and drops left behind. And I flashed back to that hotel room only two (three? four?) months prior and realized that was the last time I had seen myself in a mirror. Comparatively speaking, I looked neither better nor worse. It was like I’d gone into a holding pattern, waiting for clearance to continue my slide into hell or whatever fate I would allow for myself. But this time I could see more than just the deep disgusting differences in my psyche. My eyes were still hollow instead of bright, but they were also cold. My skin was pasty instead of rose hued, despite the hot shower, and it too was cold. I’d lost a few more pounds and it showed in how much deeper my cheeks sank. It was me at fifty before I was half that age. It was pathetic.
I ran some lukewarm water into the sink and shaved, something I’d never done naked before. I know it’s an odd thing to think about, but the thought simply came as a “never did that before” jog from my memory. I gently dried off with my one semi-clean towel, rolled some deodorant under my arms and strolled over to the closet.
I didn’t own a chest of drawers; all my underwear and socks and sweaters and foldable items of clothing were laid on a shelving unit shoved into one corner. I picked out a pair of briefs, a white t-shirt and pair of black socks and pulled them on, right there...something else I never did. Then I took the only clothes I had left on hangers — a white cotton shirt and that long forgotten pair of torn black Dockers — and slipped into those. The pants were loose, so I cinched the belt a notch tighter. Two notches. Doing that helped hide the damage to the material enough to where if you weren’t looking for it, you’d never see it. I found my black shoes (the ones that were always tied) and shoved my feet into them, then I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I still had not one bit of thought or emotion at seeing this “crystal-chic” type freak staring back.
I got my wallet, got my car keys, gave Jag a pat on the head and left.
The high school was busy. Traffic had yet to be jammed with the lunchtime crush. Meters were open everywhere. I stopped at one, plunked in a quarter and walked along. There were a few tourists looking around with disappointment at how sedate Melrose seemed, even with its wall murals and occasional head shops. “It just ain’t like Haight-Ashbury, Oliver, that’s fer dang sure.”
I turned down a side street and turned, again, to head down the alley. And two doors down stood Rene’s thirty year-old Mercedes carefully parked in one of the two parking slots. The aroma of his lunch preparation danced up to greet me like it was overjoyed to see the prodigal son.
“So this is where I’m going,” I thought as I wandered up to the door.
I looked in...and there was Rene, unchanged, dipping his finger into a pot to test the sauce. Steam swirled around him and tickled through the silver hair that still flew out from under his chef’s cap. He wasn’t happy with what he found, so he grabbed a pinch of this and a dab of that to fling into the pot. Then he stirred the sauce. And saw me. His expression did not change, nor did he hesitate in his stirring; he just glanced me over.
I gulped, my mind a blank, my mouth dry. But then words began popping out, soft, croaking, whispers of, “I’m sorry. I left you in a bad spot. No excuse. I’m so sorry.”
He checked another pot, still casting little glances at me. It needed a dash more salt.
I kept babbling. “I’m going out to get another job. If I can. I think I’m pretty good at waiting tables. I — I was hoping I could — well, could I give you as a reference? I know it’s asking a lot — but I need to — to...”
Rene motioned me in; I entered. He pointed me to his ratty little table covered with paperwork and such; I sat in the one chair. He pulled down a plate, put some Ravioli Caruso on it and set it before me; I stared at it. Silverware wrapped in a tacky red napkin appeared by my right hand; I looked up at him.
“Rene...”
“Eat,” was all he said, then he turned back to his pots.
I ate. Slowly. Tasting every bite. Loving it. No, luxuriating in it. The warmth of it drifted into my stomach and gently spread into my heart then through my whole body. Oh, sweet Jesus, it was Heaven, purest Heaven. I licked the plate clean, and I mean that literally.
When I was done, Rene appeared by my side, again. “I can use you Tuesday, Thursday lunch, Friday, Sunday night.”
I felt like I’d been slapped with cold water. Did he say what I thought he said? “Here? But I — I — didn’t...”
“Can you work lunch, today?”
“Yes.”
“I need a host. We have a big party coming. You park on the street?”
“Meter.”
“Put it by my car. This time only. Then prep the tables. Laila is alone until noon. Again.”
He turned back to his pots. I couldn’t move. I was afraid that if I did, I’d see nothing but my dreary four walls instead of these happy steaming pots and hear my pissy neighbors instead of the plinks and plops of Rene’s cuisine nearing perfection and smell the cabbage crap Mrs. Vanden was cooking instead of the insanely gorgeous aromas combining in this tiny kitchen. Then Rene looked at me and gave me an irritated flip of his hand to tell me to go.
I went.
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