Hour Glasses Part III

So, now i have the first sentence for the book I want to write, but I’m in the middle of this San Francisco tale and I think that I can get it out before the publishing date of The Last Block in Harlem. It’s always a switching back and forth on what to work on, but i’ve learned to just stay the course on these things, so I’m doing that now. I think there needs to be a picture of some kind to lead each of these posts off.

So, let’s see where to pick up. I’ll have to set it all in the summer time – though it would be nice to break it up into 4 seasons and go through there. Yes. That will work. I need to send back that interview to my man at the Fiction Circus. That’s on my mind as well. It’s Saturday. There’s time enough. I’m not rushing the sun. Let’s see. I guess we should go to waking up with screaming in the bathroom. The underside of stuff.

It was a rare day of not working. I got up with the sun and turned on my record player. That was before the internet when you could do things like play old records and really enjoy  yourself like that. I heard screaming coming from the upstairs bathroom. It came again. It wasn’t a scream like something that had been inflicted by another human being. No, that wasn’t it. It was more like something like a big stomach cramp or something like that. It came again. Then again.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. The wolf dog came running into my room and barked for something, followed by the goat faced boy, who always seemed to be interested on what was up on my walls. I think he was scoping out what he could steal and either sell or wear. Junkies are nasty that way. In the middle of their high, they’re good folks. When they need something to get high, well, they turn into humans. Humans being the adult version of the human who will cut through all senses of goodness to do what they need to keep from getting sick. It’s mostly that.

The scream came again. The goat faced boy shook his head no, as if telling me not to worry about any of it. Florence came in, putting on her earrings and getting herself ready for work.

“Don’t worry about that, it’s an abscess,” she said. “Happens all the time. Well, not all the time, but it’s part of it. Not the pretty part. You’re a writer or want to be, right? Well, you have to see these parts of life. I’d love to share with you some time and see what kind of stuff you’re getting at. I have a small following here. They seem to like it. I don’t know where I find to do any of it. On my break I guess. The guy, remember the guy I was telling you about who we wanted to have here if you would have let him – the cleaning guy who likes a few smacks? Anyway, he likes to type up my notes. Good on grammar as well. We should do a reading together. Anyway, off to work. See you tonight.”

She flipped her hair, zipped up her boot, and disappeared from the doorway. The goat faced boy laughed and lit up a menthol. I needed to get out of there.

Carolina came in the door before my record finished playing. His arm was bandaged.

“You guys want to come with me to walk the dog?”

“It’s so bright out,” the goat faced boy said.

“That’s my line,” Carolina replied, flipping down his sunglasses. “Come on, we could use the exercise.”

Both of them were bone thin but were equally obsessed with staying thin. Being a male prostitute at that time, for their clients at least, had little different twist than you’d think. All of the people who were paying were already ripped and in decent shape. They wanted little skinny man boys to play with. Junk helped keep that figure.

We all hit the block of McCalister and walked the wolf dog up towards the park. Being outside with people you’re used to being in a certain surrounding with is strange. The frame around people often exposes who they really are. Either that, or it gives you a good look at who you really are.

Take a look at yourself,

take a look at yourself,

take one good look

take a look at yourself.



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