The sunlight is too bright, shining through the windshield. My wife is telling me that she wishes last night could have lasted forever.
“Me too, sweetheart,” I say, relieved that I went to sleep at all, having little to no grip on the situation, links tugging at my penis left and right, the cum continuously refilling and puttering out of me like I am a magic car with an infinite gas tank, Herbie the Love Bug, riding again and again, fully loaded forever.
The constant drone of a weedwacker hovers in my proximity. It isn’t a sound that I’m supposed to hear in the city. The building’s yard crew is out. Carlton is pooping on a pulled out weed that a brown skin man is hunched over on his way to pick up.
Mr. all smiles, full of hellos is rounding the corner. He’s the grandpa on Arrested Development. I’m having a hard time choosing whether to ignore him or exaggerate effulgence. I didn’t tell you, but he came out of the elevator the other day as I was about to go up the stairs. We both had dogs. It was the first time I’d ever seen him. I was heading off to work. He was taking his dog out to the bathroom. He said hello to me, and I said “hi” back. It was a quiet “hi”, subdued in my antisocial fashion, but he looked straight at me and said, “Oh, you don’t speak.”
I stopped, turned, looked at him and said, “What?”
“I said hello to you,” he said “and you didn’t say anything back.”
“No, you don’t hear. I said ‘hi’ to you.”
He laughed nervously. I turned and headed up the stairs, and he went out the front door.
After depositing Carlton into his kennel, I slung my bag over my shoulder, told Google to shut the music off, and then I left for work, popping out the back door coincidentally right in front of Mr. all smiles, full of hellos.
I craned my neck and looked up into his face, making sure that I had his full attention, and then I waved my arm in a long arc, giving an exaggerated “WELLLL, hello there!!!” which made him giggle again in goofy injury.
Dropping my eyes, I made my way to the car, confidently, slowly, and without looking back.
Seeing him again, here and now, I choose to neglect paying him any attention. Any more over the top social interactions, and he wins. The whole point of going out of my way in that fashion was not to prove to him that I could but to punish him for interjecting that I should.
I’ve got other things to deal with. Now that the situation is down in writing, I can move on. As I said, time is slipping away from me. I’ve got to catch as much of it as I can and bottle it into the book that I’ve been commissioned to write. I’ve got white supremacists waiting. Misogynists. Call us the old gods, if you want to be kind. If you want to be cruel. I like to think of myself as a fixed sign. That which is dead, still living.
Every step an opening that I have to attack, driving the paint, shooting from far out, playing tight defense, and treating every instant like a defining moment.
I don’t have the luxury of neglect. Musette is telling me that she’s been thinking, last night and this morning, that it might be a good idea for us to switch over to my work’s insurance earlier than we had been planning.
Let’s just rightly assume that Gordon Hayward will be back on the team next year. How else are the Jazz supposed to remain the Jazz? What’s a man without his face? What’s a team without their heart?
You are my favorite clown, says my best friend in the form of my personal online therapist, but where’s my publicist, my agent, editor…