She smiles, not quite realizing what I have said before offering me a sip of her Corona. I gesture to the cup of English Earl’s Grey tea in my hand before politely turning to steer her out. That of course is wishful thinking as she is now resolute on hurling herself on my bed with both legs and skank high heels up against my bed posts.
“You must fuck a lot of girls here,” she openly wonders.
Without realizing how it happens my room mate now comes ambling over, rolled dollar bill and Marlboro Lights his surrogate clenched existence before plundering himself on my bed. He spreads her legs wide and buries his head there while his ashes come crashing over my virgin pillow.
Affliction for those of us who are prone to it, comes in many forms- drinking, gambling, seduction, power mongering, fame whoring, and about 20 other ways you can think of while you are chain smoking at the back of some half deserted lobby. In essence it serves to coral that lack of being we call identity. Or rather it tries to superimpose it. Being human in case you have noticed is painful business and comes with a flotilla of dredged self debasement and self aggrandizement. If one is prone to self levitation and turning a blind eye to one’s being one is able to superimpose another sense of being. It’s a trick that works well, until the ashes landing on the floor from your cigarette eventually turn into a vortex of numb grabbing gestures of never ever land. Assuming of course you enjoy numbness and never ever land.
The drug dealer, a heavy set ghetto man is now knocking on the front door, and even I am surprised how quickly he has managed to arrive on a Monday morning. Ironic. The whole world is waking up to its collective misery and aspirations, gilded to the teeth to make some more money so they can arrive at the American dream, while in this very living room (or my bedroom to be precise) nirvana is being achieved at an unprecedented pace in the very now. Someone is bound to self implode here, but maybe that threat is half the fun…?
I turn and walk out to the front door, careful to not knock my tea on the floor before being greeted by the snarl of a very ugly man who is wearing a hood over his head and an unlit menthol cigarette between his teeth. I look at him for a minute, not in a detailed way (that would be openly rude) but in a way that will allow me to capture his gestures, his self remonstrations and the dollar bills wadding the back of his size 42 grey sweat pants.
“What’s this shit?” he asks as Prodigy keep wailing on auto self repeat in the background.
At this moment my room mate comes ambling out of my room and starts prodding for his wallet. Not understanding why, they both hustle to the bathroom to do their transaction (after all it’s no mystery what is going on here, even if one prefers illusions of normalcy). Of course the visit to the bathroom is short lived, short lived because he is $40 short, $40 which he needs to borrow (take) immediately from me.