Gilbert
So, now I guess I have to actually write something. My first idea was to simply post a picture of me in a pool of my own blood, with the caption “good night America”. Too edgy...
So here’s this instead. I'm calling it Gilbert... Enjoy...
The living room floor is squeaky with humidity. It is just all-around hot, in a way people like to write about. Sticky-hot, burning-hot, sun-hot. White light protrudes through the mini-blinds like a prison break. It’s the kind of bright that sort of seeps in, no matter what’s closed or shut.
And so he sits. On his couch. It’s made with a sort of itchy-grainy material that was popular probably never. The TV is on, technically speaking, unheard, quiet, airing some sequel that was released at some point with that sort of network TV-conversion haze that makes every movie look substantially older.
He’s holding his remote control, the kind with the uncomfortable square, rubbery buttons that don’t have labels on them. It’s modern enough to feature volume buttons, but not mute. He’s half-napping, not asleep, not interested, neither engaging nor changing the channel.
He is sweaty. It’s sort of impossible not to be sweaty, under the circumstances. No air conditioning. Beyond the budget. A conventional wall-type non-energy efficient unit would cost approximately 2% of his monthly salary. Unjustifiable, strictly speaking, when he really thinks about it.
He takes pills. There are serotonin issues. The wrinkled pivot between his thumb and index finger has become pinkish and sore from push-twisting childproof lids. The sharp edges catching on the divots between the white wrinkles are what make him sore. It’s the sort of pain that is difficult to complain about, in public.
The sunlight has passed through the fortress of the Venetian blinds, blurring their patterns onto the adjacent walls. It’s the kind of hot that demands open windows. Any-air-pressure-will-alleviate-the-misery-hot. He opens the rickety, old windows, which seem to hold a never ending supply of dry-chipped paint, which crumbles into powder, clinging to his moist hands like evaporated milk.
And he sees it. Across the street. Just sitting on the curb. Like it’s trash.
A sign. “Free”. One clear word. Its value inherently in excess of the price. Well within the budget. No risk at all. A pretty little thing at that. A mirror, glass intact from the looks of things. A wood frame carved into pretty little spirals. An antique?
He pauses. The traffic is light. Maybe just this once. The benefits of free merchandise (he would no longer need to buy a mirror) out weigh the risks, perhaps. He should go. Anyone can see that the value of the thing. He should go.
His leg muscles tense into rocks sweat beading down from his buttocks. A convertible swaggers by, manned by a long-haired fellow, his locks flailing in the stale breeze.
So why not, then? He should have that mirror. It’s free, after-all. It’s within the budget. What risk is there? Going across the street, decidedly between rush hours… Anyone else would. The mirror is clearly valuable.
He grabs the door handle. The ovular kind, no angles to cling to. It resists. His wrist, clenching and twisting with confidence, then sweatily releasing its grip.
There will be cars. Not many perhaps, but it’s a busy street. There is always the risk of cars. And if the light were to turn green at an inopportune moment…
His arm slinks against the door, then his torso, and, finally, the rest of him. His glasses dig in to his porous cheeks with a sort of taunt. He clings to the door and tremors with nervous excitement. He might do this.
(To be continued, probably)
So here’s this instead. I'm calling it Gilbert... Enjoy...
The living room floor is squeaky with humidity. It is just all-around hot, in a way people like to write about. Sticky-hot, burning-hot, sun-hot. White light protrudes through the mini-blinds like a prison break. It’s the kind of bright that sort of seeps in, no matter what’s closed or shut.
And so he sits. On his couch. It’s made with a sort of itchy-grainy material that was popular probably never. The TV is on, technically speaking, unheard, quiet, airing some sequel that was released at some point with that sort of network TV-conversion haze that makes every movie look substantially older.
He’s holding his remote control, the kind with the uncomfortable square, rubbery buttons that don’t have labels on them. It’s modern enough to feature volume buttons, but not mute. He’s half-napping, not asleep, not interested, neither engaging nor changing the channel.
He is sweaty. It’s sort of impossible not to be sweaty, under the circumstances. No air conditioning. Beyond the budget. A conventional wall-type non-energy efficient unit would cost approximately 2% of his monthly salary. Unjustifiable, strictly speaking, when he really thinks about it.
He takes pills. There are serotonin issues. The wrinkled pivot between his thumb and index finger has become pinkish and sore from push-twisting childproof lids. The sharp edges catching on the divots between the white wrinkles are what make him sore. It’s the sort of pain that is difficult to complain about, in public.
The sunlight has passed through the fortress of the Venetian blinds, blurring their patterns onto the adjacent walls. It’s the kind of hot that demands open windows. Any-air-pressure-will-alleviate-the-misery-hot. He opens the rickety, old windows, which seem to hold a never ending supply of dry-chipped paint, which crumbles into powder, clinging to his moist hands like evaporated milk.
And he sees it. Across the street. Just sitting on the curb. Like it’s trash.
A sign. “Free”. One clear word. Its value inherently in excess of the price. Well within the budget. No risk at all. A pretty little thing at that. A mirror, glass intact from the looks of things. A wood frame carved into pretty little spirals. An antique?
He pauses. The traffic is light. Maybe just this once. The benefits of free merchandise (he would no longer need to buy a mirror) out weigh the risks, perhaps. He should go. Anyone can see that the value of the thing. He should go.
His leg muscles tense into rocks sweat beading down from his buttocks. A convertible swaggers by, manned by a long-haired fellow, his locks flailing in the stale breeze.
So why not, then? He should have that mirror. It’s free, after-all. It’s within the budget. What risk is there? Going across the street, decidedly between rush hours… Anyone else would. The mirror is clearly valuable.
He grabs the door handle. The ovular kind, no angles to cling to. It resists. His wrist, clenching and twisting with confidence, then sweatily releasing its grip.
There will be cars. Not many perhaps, but it’s a busy street. There is always the risk of cars. And if the light were to turn green at an inopportune moment…
His arm slinks against the door, then his torso, and, finally, the rest of him. His glasses dig in to his porous cheeks with a sort of taunt. He clings to the door and tremors with nervous excitement. He might do this.
(To be continued, probably)
posted by Kevin Sawyer | 9:25 AM | 6 comments
