8.25.98

Romance Novels

"Is the city open?" I ask the newspaper vendor.
"Not yet"
"Any papers?"
"Not yet" The morning darkness conceals my disappointments. Soon and for a while I will hide my youth and put on my best adulthood. The fire of youth comes out in the city not in the bold moves it longs for but in subtle textures and muted tonalities. In our shameful ignorance we guard the precious value of our innocence lest the vacuous and the undone pilfer it.

Joe lives in a cubicle. He believes that aliens killed JFK. This is Joe to me. This is all I know of the fleshy hulk that picks at his keyboard all day while listening to some unknown music on his headphones. The music pacifies his anger and soothes his hate. I think of Joe as I approach the office.

A man steps out of an alley muttering to himself. He is unshaven and drunk as he shuffles across the street toward a port-o-let. I know this man also. He is here often as I come to my office in the city. He believes he is Jesus Christ. He is biding his time until he can ascend to his heavenly throne; the alcohol his crucifixion.

I am at the door and just as I reach to open it a skater passes by.

"It's too soon for skaters," I think.

He doesn't seem to think so.

"Any papers?" asks the secretary as I enter the office.

"Not yet," I can see her romance novel sitting behind her. It calls her to escape.

Just before the door seals behind me I hear the smack of a skateboard hitting the asphalt.