I write to redeem myself. Like a coupon against time. I spent my early years setting up little plastic green army men for a war that finally came. Also, I'm bad at the game of Stratego.
I'm waiting to pick my sister up from school remembering that my mom used to arrive so late after school to pick me up that technically I am still waiting for a ride. It's probably the reason why I'm so bad at standing around for other people. That's not true, I've always been like this, craving singular locomotion.
So out I go. I go by car. I go by plane. I go by foot. I like nights that begin with myself but end entwined in somebody else. Their story. Their body. Their goodbye. I like adventures. What kind of adventures?
He said nothing else matters but this moment. He said that the only problem with Magic Johnson is that he was not born a Mexican. He bought me a Tecate tallboy and he, his son, and I, toasted before they vanished.
I imagine a movie trailer moment of that btw. Where the character like me says: I like adventures. And a calmer type with mild curiosity asks: What kind of adventures?
Flash to a character swaying down a walkway majestically walled up on both sides by urban hedge appearing through seasisde mists ancient. Reflections of a face from a stream travelling down the middle of an alleyway. Hordes of ghosts blowing like walking kites on skid row through the windshield. On foot, dancing in silver light. A smack. Of an ass. A punch. Of a face. A smile that looks like the saddest clown in the world. Four feet dangling off the edge of a miles high skyscraper. Two pairs of eyes lit by moon. Hordes of seagulls clamoring like an apocalypse above Hollywood Boulevard.
She said my zipper was still down and hooked her finger in it. Her apartment smelled like the end of being young. The cab driver had been up all night and didn't know what else to say when he deposited me downtown into the morning.
