Loosened that stiffened neck tie, fought another squeeze with the harrowing balloon. Drove back home and popped a brew, watching the clouds swirl circular and menacing.
After my coffeehouse meeting, I hopped in my old '97 Jeep Grand Cherokee; fully stocked with rattling exhaust, broken stereo, and non-functional car-phone. Vehicular vestiges of the previous automotive era. Timeless. I cruised uptown with the windows down to meet Small Gun at his new apartment. He was late, as usual, so I got out and knocked on the wrong apartment door until I heard his heavy, buffalo-heeled-stomping down the spiral wooden staircase and he opened the door adjacent to the one I embarrassingly berated for the minute. We laughed and slap-hugged each other in the custom of our contemporary flat-headed frat-guzzlers. Hopped back in my car and hit Hollywood Diner near the highway. The food at these places is always as quick as it is greasy, but never disappointing. So we dined for a Hollywood hour. Which in Chicago time is roughly 20 minutes. Catch those facts, Smackie. We just diggin' 'em up, and knockin' em down. You know I got that old Tom Waits tune dancing through my mind, fingers of piano jazz and electric rhetoric. Drove back to his place, and left him snoozin' on the new beige couch. That brother will never get up.
Skipped out on the second interview today. Don't know why. Didn't have the courage, didn't have the interest. I don't think I could see myself becoming the guy I try to avoid on the street. I'm desperate for cash, but there are always other tunnels to the hidden gold.
I'm back home now. Laughin' at the old bloodshot moon in that burgundy sky...
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