May 22, 2003

• sam spade

  
  

   

  
  

  Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.  I wasn’t present at the creation but at some point, the hands of fate were wrung gleefully as my lifelines were plotted like tacks on maps.  Some nights, I lay silent and muggy, hoping to milk the ceiling fan for what it’s worth.  It’s a slow spin; each revolution a second, dumped flippantly down the garbage chute of living.  You wonder what might be.

  
  

   

  
  

  Hi.  I’m napping but wait a few seconds and the phone will wake me.  I’m leaning back in an old leather chair, legs hoisted comfortably on a messy desk.  It’s getting late and the city hogs all natural light; I’m left with neon buzzing near my 3^rd story window.  A stale breeze whips and winds its way around downtown buildings, through the fresh linen scent of drying clothes, over alley piss buckets, where it mingles with hot Laundromat air.  It reaches the office full of grit, love and gritty love.  There’s the moon - her paltry, frail light masked by mighty lime fluorescents.

  
  

   

  
  

  The phone rings.  I wake with a start like a needle pricking a thumb or fingers kissing the lip of a skillet.  Ever watch a bachelor cook eggs or grilled cheese on rye?  For the bachelor, the aesthetics of dining don’t go very far.  He’ll make food in a pan and eat right out of it, staring out the window come noon.  Life as art – spilled by Pollock in the bright, gaudy colors of a hangover.  Chance events are streaks, criss-crossing as ordained.

  
  

   

  
  

  A groggy mess, I’ll pick up the receiver.  Sleeves rolled, tie trained two inches below the collar, everything a wrinkle.  Disheveled, sure.  Charming, you bet.

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Life as a slide downward.  You land; you dust your bottom; you climb up again. 
  Life as a slide downward.  All in good fun.
  
  It’s been a slow month and business hasn’t been nice.  The glamour wears whispery thin.  There’s nothing Hollywood about eating week-old Chinese.  I take the job and don my trademark coat and hat.  It’s starting to rain, so I grab an old paper for cover.  Outside, the drops are phrenologists tapping samba on my head.
  

   

  
  

  Across the street, I see a brightly lit Tom’s Diner.  I’m cold and I need to get to my LeSabre but three girls sit laughing over a pancake dinner.  Watching the uglier stir a mug of steaming drip, I see them giggle carefree.  It’s dark out; it’s light in. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I fumble around for keys but it’s wyrd, my luck’s about to change.
  

  
  

    ———————–

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

        –  It’s a slow train comin’

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  Matt11:28

  • 4:46 pm
  • 13 Comments