Entire Contents Copyright ©2004 writeThis.com. All Rights Reserved.
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writeThis
sept. 2003
the cabal
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"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
TRAIN ROBBERS
michael internicola
Back then I was alive. I was learning. My ass was in business. I was fresh then--free. I knew answers. I had things I knew I really wanted to do. Had my good friends around me. I believed in true love. Romantic 14-year old girl/boy love. I didn't smoke and people listened to me. I could feel pain then. Could appreciate a great time. Never could fly into a rage. I wanted to explore. My life was more difficult than it is now and I knew I was changing. I was first witness. wasn't sick of myself then. Like if someone dates somebody too long and gets overly used to them: their maneuvers or mannerisms, their ways. The sex wasn't boring and everything else didn't piss me off or complicate my style. Back then Emmy kissed me when I wasn't looking. She encouraged me to write. She cried happy. She conquered time and had a good voice. My old stories were new and nobody was tired of them yet. I didn't think I could manage time with someone so long without wanting to be with somebody else--someplace completely above the spot I was in. Back then the old man gave me a Cuban cigar for that special moment when something great was going to happen to me. I smoked it with HASH my first night of a two day stay in Paris--traveling the rest of the time in Europe. It was my 19th month in New York, regardless of the year, and Rochelle and I were over.
I would have never wanted to go back to Paris if it had not been for **********, for Lawrence, for Char, Black Jack Woman (you know who you are), et cetera...my drinking, attempting to murder the book by December, sleeping, reading and of course Emily Frances. I told myself that other man would never enter my body again. He disappeared ten months ago with twelve unfinished chapters, undisturbed disguise--like for weeks on end...I'm not kidding. The best years of his life are gone by. Now besides the Complete Idiots's travel Guide, which I really am carrying, I find myself examining a note stuck into page 79 by good OL' HASH. See my best buddy, HASH beckons, "Well, while I sit around and sweat thinking about all the good times I wanted to drop you a letter. I'm glad your finally getting back over there and have some time to walk around solo and check things out. It's too fucking hot for me to even think about something creative to say. I wish you all the luck. I want you to lead the way for us. My man, this is where you open up your life. I still believe our place is over there. You've got nothing to hold you back now. I know we haven't been able to spend that much time together but I feel it doesn't matter. Our friendship is the important thing. Don't worry about me. My thoughts are still in the right place. I think about Europe everyday. I won't get caught up in the bullshit over here. Anyway, best of luck. Bring back my baby. You got to, Jules...if one person on earth...let me know what's going on. P.S. Because I'm coming."-and I put that down.
I'm as lonely as I can be invading France like I am. Help me. Wind the purple yo yo back to the original state and help me and help me, God dammit. The time are changing, HASH. All the great ones talk about their dreams. I was born in the fields roaring drunk. All the young people were dressed in strength and maturity. I ate tree bark and killed wild beasts then. I had many moods, I tell you, even before I left those swift creatures I had an understanding of how certain things in my life should be. It goes without saying I sought to maintain the principal here. I consumed the intellectual seventh sense, denying the common ones that never empowered me. The roses died and I challenged myself boldly. I found myself there. I was born to be the savaged man. Now when HASH had written the above portion of that letter he was pleased for me. Behind much of these words, especially the ending, is love. I will show HASH. HASH the pool player. HASH the dancer. HASH being nothing in the Hamptons. HASH being funny. HASH being sad. It's incredible the bastard is still out there singing something will pan out. He's like furniture in that fucking cush apartment with the twenty thousand burning holes in his pockets. Not letting himself do jack. The moment he touches shit it turns to half tint gold but I couldn't be happier for him. He takes off from home and visits my place. Comes to write three minutes worth in my red book on a visit to the room where punishment happens, sticks it to the mattress on the floor and proclaims to the world in the name of himself and his girl that he will share with you the deeds of great great crap. This is the man to which everything is supposed to be known. The God's gave him secret things. Gave him favors like a strong family and a perfectly tall body. God's gave him a gift he's wasting. Fucker gave me a colored rubber ball.
Her long feminine hair looked the same as it did in 1998, "Let me guess..."-I said, poking lazy fingers around Good Luck Charlie's ear at East 11th Street where it all began, "Let me guess. You're seeing someone and you decided to be a little adventurous and meet me out tonight. Things are going good and now your totally realizing that your having a little more fun then, let's say, your supposed to. Okay. Okay, that's cool. So, I'm not going call you again until you call me and I'm not going kiss you again until you kiss me. Why don't you do this...you iron out the kinks and let me know okay?"-and she gives me an unwavering stare. Laying eyes on her new pal. Charlie laughs certainly in front of me, "I would, Mr. Jules..."-she expounds, holding that pool stick without comprehension, ..."but those little kinks are one huge knot and he's flying in from London to see me in four hours."-Cutie doll's cheeks are full of flickering shifts, seen and not seen. I smile a lot. She makes reference to her siblings in Columbus, Ohio taking natural breathes...quick and expanding sounds until she comes closer. Her heart is made of silk. Her lips are soft cushions or soggy coco puffs. Her eyes are dark rugs underneath the whole bar. Her eyes, in front of her new ex-boyfriend, now simply put belong to me. Char calls me the next day, "Just wondering if your as tired as I am."-we talked the whole week discussing the fleas I had gotten in my leg hair. The next weekend we went out again.
Good Luck Charlie is the secret agent. I am now the Electrified American of the year 2001. I am doting I's and crossing T's on letters like this to Char a few years later from the previous message, "You have been a God send to me, Honey."-I wrote, "How to explore a letter to you? I haven't written many of them to you, huh? For a writer anyway. Thank you for accepting me like I am. I feel like I was supposed to meet you, Doll. I wouldn't have said that sometime before. That's not a bad thing, Kid. I'm so happy about things and how how gradual they have progressed. I mean it so much. I love you. I love you so fucking much. Everybody is giving up on me. I feel close to being dead. Tonight. Tonight, Doll...all I'm thinking about is Europe. Mostly Paris and shit. I don't belong in New York anymore. You know that. I do belong with you right now. Paris feels so right for me out of all the places I've been. You never see me writing. It's my stage right now. I love you. I guess working on your third book at twenty eight isn't that bad, huh? Feels pretty good. You've had amazing strides mentally since we've known each other. can you feel it? Don't worry about all that other bullshit. It will work itself out. I know and you know I know. You don't have to have some creative gift to make strides (hold on the CD is skipping). I hope you don't feel I'm taking you for granted. I don't. I love you so much. Things are hard but soon they will be a piece of cake. Don't worry about us. We will always be together. If you feel distant from me it's just because my writing is number one always. It's been a progression too just like our relationship. The word relationship sounds so nice. You're a good pace for me. You don't rush me and I love you even more for it. Do you know what I mean when I say on stage? Writing is introverted. I'm really not. You feel you should be doing more...so do I. In time, Love--in time. The other morning before you left I looked into your beautiful eyes and I knew you would love me forever--no matter what or who may come into your life. I don't have anyone else like that. You watch out for me as much as I watch out for you. This book has love. I never saw it coming like they said. Whoever they are. You can love me as much as you want. I'm not going anywhere. Don't be scared of that. Don't hold back. I'm yours, fragile and hard. You glow. Everyone says so, Charlie. Sometimes I need you to be my cushion. Sometimes I need your shoulder. Your my safety in this shit world--soon to be a happy one. You and I in Europe is another level. A branch in the tree to climb. I know what everyone thinks of me. They think I'm there or going there but I won't lick that ice cream cone. Just wanted to say I love you on this summer night. Listen to this...I love you. I love to watch you grow and experience. That's all."
THE discovery is growling, hard headed and soaked with vodka. The wind is riding on boxes outside the train station as I walk up to Good Luck Charlie all droopy, mumbling up my sleeve from three days of no sleep and mumbling mostly because I've messed this whole trip up by arguing like a shithead and then blaming the whole autonomous tourist feeling on her although HASH and I very descriptively talked about this many many months beforehand...about how that would happen or outlining the whole trip and how I would just see these better days and do my time seeing stuff in Europe until we met up in Paris a couple months down the line and then we would just catch up on all that we've done and go smooth sailing through out the place undisturbed for weeks on end drinking cocktails, taking pictures, writing and obliged to me in each other company. But to my surprise I've jumped right into the trap of having to play chickenshit right in the middle of Switzerland on a Tuesday right now rambling about what I really can't fucking say. I can't get a hold of him. I don't even know if he's still here. Is he on a mission to conquer the most land ever? Be the butterfly? Is he spending the quality time by himself like I told him he has to do? Is he paying his debts off or still hiding out? Will he reach the sea? Is this the end to our tight friendship, I wonder. Have we been in too many dark corners to enjoy the good life together? I would miss my brother because it hasn't been the same for years now and the Higher Power is telling me, it's saying you really need somebody to take care of you...I will die hard either way...and Emmy...Will you remember me, baby like I remember you? When I can barely cross the street will you come to me? Will you say to me I've read your book...or I didn't even know you wrote or what a duck you must think I am for not reading your work...oh, Darling. Where did you go? Are you fishing for salmon like you liked to do? In the ripples? Are you writing like me or eating bagels with cream cheese? What kind of music? Steven Stills every time I looked at you? Is there a heaven or are you parked in a box sweating and wanting to get out? Is the dirt covering you everywhere? Quick sanding you to death? And I'm sorry for missing the fucking funeral but I didn't know...and nobody called or told me and I'm sorry but I needed to talk to you one last time to see if things were okay or if we could give it another shot...but I can't believe your fishing in heaven...are you a bird? Are your hands still callused like they always were? Do you still drink that stuff or seem boundless, untouched to the naked eye or perhaps they've lied to me and your living somewhere because you were sick of it all too. Are you reborn into a baby girl eating cold hot dogs on a Sunday afternoon in a park with the tiniest of images: fingers, I mean...this resurrection of some sort. Emmy can you hear the piano? Are you listening to the special keys, the distant pulse being...being so overworked and sullen? Are you gripping hard on the pole or are you just letting the water do all the work? Remember like I showed you? Oh, baby I need you to call me like I knew you would someday. I need to meet you unannounced ed at that book signing in California like it was supposed to go. Can we touch...can we, Emmy...smoke a butt outside the railing. Can we just kiss or hold hands or have something because I still love you some and I never got a chance to meet you tonight at stupid Mercado Bar on rue Oberkamph by the hotel we were staying at. It's all coming back to you, Emmy and the poem, Emmy...I never got a chance to say certain stuff. Remember To Remember. I don't know. I'm just rambling along. The crowd is cheering or booing and all I know is I'm running out of money again, baby.
THE plan five Tuesday's ago leading us to today was: 11:56 leaving Paris to Eborn, Spain. Leave by 10:15 A.M. arriving in Pamplona at 12:23. It's always 10:15. Check face for zits. Face looks good. Look at sack. Sack looks everywhere. I slept on the floor that first night, grabbed the Euro-suck rain at 1:00 A.M.--the one in charge of ordinance. The train was fucking nuts because they booked too many reservations so seats were limited. Once again, on the road again. Between the cramped seats, Good Luck Charlie's hacked ponytail and somebody strange smacking gum all night I am very dead to the world. Well, everything equaled no sleep, not being able to get our stuff out of the lockers, dirty and salami smelling like real Americans. That's why it kills me when I hear Good Luck Charlie ask, "What's the matter?"-"What?"-I answered but by now our first stop out of Irun was leading us to San Sebastian and if it weren't for Good Luck Charlie talking the police into opening the gate around 11:45 we would have been fucked and demoted to touristy Barcelona for sure. Instead we are fine and make the train to Pamplona in search of Los Fermines/The Running of the Bulls (July 6-14). From what Charlie had read they ran the beasts at 8:00 A.M. but only for three minutes long when the bulls stayed together. Somebody in Paris said already three men had died but, like I said, at least you know nobody strange is gonna sit next to you when you travel with another person. Upon arrival flies are everywhere on Good Luck Charlie--chasing her around in pajamas and shit. We talked with a couple from Hawaii who ran this morning down by Dead Man's Corner and they said it was exhilarating. Not a mutter of these deaths like I thought. Next thing I know I'm in a bar called El Kiosko drinking Carlsberg and watching some little girl dance next to a Spanish sounding band--seeing the statue of ********* in the foreground by the bullring. Every time the music stops she runs to her mother, faces us and hides embarrassed. When the music begins again she dashes towards the speaker and starts dancing some more. Today was the last day of the festival. The last run was held that morning with thousands of people out as early as 4:00 A.M. to bind with the bulls. Spoke to the taxi driver about getting tickets for the bullfight around six and for a small fee he referred us to the market outside the ring. We got in too late to actually run. After lunch we decide to get trashed, book our second class train to Valencia in time to make Spain's greatest party past twelve midnight. Go. Note: moody girl singing with socks up to her stomach. A very tall order.
Now besides the run, bullfights thrive. For 1000 pesetas we score tickets to supposedly the best match of the festival. Come four o' clock we took seats with a crew from Los Angeles and England. An older woman named Frosty spoke with me about the thirty-one runs she had made over the years--ending up three years ago bloodied and bruised against a wall lying down face first. The father and son had stories about meeting ***** ******* and James Milchner before the two of them had died. They had pictures from their six days holding up the walls. The young kid was in his first run, hiding along side a wooden fence as the bulls passed by. He had the pictures to prove it although I could hardly see him in any of them. I am sitting in the middle watching three hotties sneak sangria into the place. The waiter is from London, teaching English in Madrid for the last seven months. When I ask about my Jingo Visa card he says they don't take it. This means we have little cash because Charlie's ATM isn't working but he graciously offers us two cervasas on the house. I say...Good Luck Charlie says yes...so, one thing for certain after entering the bullring around six is that we will be caked with wine and flour and fruit and whatever other product they're throwing up top. Our seats we on something called the terasda--the party scene inside the gates. Probably about twenty thousand strong. People go off in echo celebration--feeling revolution everywhere. Inside the ring are two red circles, shade on the other side and everyone's dancing and playing music--gunning tapa shit on me and Char. Now besides everything else described, Good Luck Charlie has a bladder problem which means she either can't pee or she goes every five seconds. Magnificent describes the best and only way I can put it. People keep filling our glasses with champagne, food and whatever else they could get their hands: sardines or olives or meat sandwiches. Half hour in were pink from all the mercy wine being poured on us--still dangling red bandanas around our necks and noticeably foreigners which everybody is finally cool with. To study the art and spirit of what goes on in that ring is a different tune from ********* describes. To begin with probably four to six men are out before the feeling begins. The bull runs out and charges anything that moves. Bulls are color blind. The men take refuge behind small bulls eye wood dividers. While the stands go off, the first knifes are planted in the bulls back to wear him down. All together the men plant six with blood from the beast visible this far away. The matador enters the ring to cheers. He then begins his march to the center of the circle. He is stylized and sexy. Uniform snug and tight and it isn't until his first pass with the red tarp that you truly see the art of what's going on. With each movement fans gasp and scream and party until they chant for death some 15-20 minutes in but it's nothing horrifyingly threatening. The matador walks off to the side after showboating the audience. The bull breathes heavy and frustrated to the point where he can't move. His lack of will defiant and the wounds slow him exhaustingly down. the matador then exchanges his security blanket for a long ass silver sword, comes back and calmly picks out the exact spot to plant the weapon--cutting off the aorta right through the neck. The bull drops sudden with a good mark and he is dead. Everyone cheers. The limp bull is then tied to a cart and dragged behind the gates by three horses. One minute later, another bull is let loose and the whole thing starts up again. Six rotations in all. Afterwards, I had to pee so bad I jumped through the crowded mess barely able to stand--ignoring the young boy behind me pleading me to go in a cup. After pissing I rushed back to the gate with Charlie and everyone had flooded the ring including us. Seat cushion were being thrown all over the place. A young bullfighter named José Thomas carried the crowd while we sang and jumped our way to the first signs of happiness now and forever.
The good news lasts a short while. Like when JFK Jr.'s plane had gone down. I talked with my old man when his wife and sister-in-law all crashed heading towards Martha's Vineyard. It's a shame because he really seemed to have life by the balls. On the other hand, if he is dead he lived a roaring life I'm sure. That morning we arrive in stylish Valencia--capital of soft sandy beaches. Out of gas from the two nights travel without any bed. Poor girl...all I did was take out my frustrations on Charlie. I passed out in the train hallway with everyone stepping on my dumb ass. Admired most of Rio Turia then. Got my bearings at the Plaza de la Reina and was set to check out Ibiza or Mallorca to get out of this oven. Saturday we chilled, drank some sangria and then she complained that we weren't talking or touching much. What the fuck do I really know? Shit, just that yesterday morning the room was getting so hot I had to ask the manager to switch things around. It was like being cooked slowly on a barbecue. I was naked on the bed with Charlie writing home. On the road for a whole two weeks then. Had a talk with a swedish couple about the bull run and that was all the fun besides the expensive hotel nothings or the Japanese kid sweating on the train. In the weeks to come we did manage to see Aerosmith and *** ***** ****** in Barcelona. Got surrounded by ten thousand screaming girls chasing one of the Backstreet Boys down the road--N' Sync maybe...who knows. The concert rocks. Man, CR during the show moving and the energy. Eddie Harsh on piano all the way from Detroit, Michigan...(Seeing Things...July 15, 1999). We didn't speak with that many strangers besides the Brits Charlie had us meet by El Carme. I remember reading, "Why let men go on living in misery? I have no peace, no rest, and my troubles never end."-JFK Jr. What a talk he and his father must have had. The following Friday was hot spot Ibiza. Took the Love Boat cruiser over all the ten hours it took to get there. at noon we arrived into a seaport and such a pretty place already. For the next five days we lived on that island but wait...Selenes, the beach, climbs two hundred meters out and anybody who has been there will talk about this. Green shallow water up to our knees. Now I haven't kissed her in three days. Ahhh, hun it's just the booze and drugs and the biting writer lifestyle choosing sides again. I'm tense or upset. I just broke down in the shower after she had fallen asleep, "I'm sorry about being a jerk."-I said, "Alright."-"I apologize for being such a dick to you."-"What do you want me to say?"-she asked, "Just don't lean on me."-I said, "Alright."-she answered, "I don't know. I want you here and I don't want to ruin your good time...."-and slowly I began to cry. Desperately, I tried to catch my voice but it cracked and I couldn't look her in the eyes. I should have never rode this one out. I knew she was leaving and now I'm killing her ever so softly...like the bull the other day...she will twitch gently, touch the wind for a breath of two seconds and someday be gone of me or it will haunt her like a ghost for the rest of her young days. Only time will tell, "Put your shoes on."-she said laughing, "They're stinking up the room."...then a fresh new day. A day to break the chain that the Higher Power has laid on my mind. And what has the Higher Power laid on my mind? Dear Higher Power...please break the chain of miserableness that crowds my space. We were leaving the hotel but before that I went down to the reception area and got the room for one more night. The clerk asked me if my wife was feeling better and I said yes. Just went what the fuck and then I went to bed until five in the afternoon luckily the sun still shines until eight or so. We got Charlie medicine and she felt fine. The Mediterranean was as blue as I remember it being. The sand and Charlie swimming topless is beautiful. Much fun strutting around in the buff like animals. The water is magic colored. Sat there most of the next day and had lunch at the Jockey Club. Both our moods had switched after some sleep. I felt a tremendous burden lifted from my shoulders. I looked at Charlie writing and so it goes. It takes time to feel another person out on the road both good and bad. This is the life. I can see in Charlie's eyes every time she tells me she wants to move here. She spoke with a woman who made clothes. Moved here 22 years ago all the way from The Big Apple. I felt like a million bucks. The next day we moved into a place on Vera Del Ray. Ran into a guy named Louis (Great Dane Louis) who we think owned the hotel. The room was set up old Spanish style with rugs, incense, fish bones and bullshit like that. The entire town reflects techno. Disco buses to San Antonio clubs were kids take X and dance and touch shit. The first night we were there we were partying. Took some bad E laced with heroin and that was that. Hooked up with a few good guys from L.A. who did make-up on movies. Decided to skip the 7 A.M. after hours with Carol Cox when Charlie started peeing in garbage cans. The last night we went out for dinner. Kissed three times on top of the castle with the view. During the day we put a deposit down on a rent-a-scooter. I put the helmet on and everything while Char took it for a ten second spin and crashed into a wall. The manager came running out and was saying, "No, no...no. No ride."-I was just standing there with my Harley helmet on and big sunglasses ready to ride. We laughed our butts off and got the deposit back. I should have known when Charlie couldn't get the kick stand down and asked the man in charge, "Are there any special rules?"-he answered no. She thought it was the funniest too. The sun continued to shine in between movie theater blowjobs and life was great all through Cannes, the rest of Spain and Italy.
IT wasn't until I left Switzerland that I fully realized Charlie was leaving me soon, "Jules...Spain was unreal. Just so interesting. You hear about the other countries but never Spain. Wish we could go to Greece soon."-her face was frozen still. Five days before it was Friday. I ate lunch in a place and watched some guy sweeping the floor in crappy clothes. His boss was watching right over his shoulder smoking a cig. I remember that feeling of having to pick it up a notch when the boss is hunting you down. Sometimes I felt that my job might be on the line if I didn't show some kind of hustle. I don't like that feeling. Char was sleeping in the room. She didn't feel good again. Last night we drank after a fight involving food. From there we watched a band. I kept waiting for some kind of lighting bolt conversation to happen or a monumental break but nothing seemed in sight and if this book didn't produce some kind of financial upheaval then I was stuck again but the other half of me is here and I really didn't care what ended up of me. It's hard for Charlie to accept that because she loves me so much. She thinks I'm too critical of others and not of myself and I say she sounds like a mother. So, I travel a bit. I take a different girl here or there. I settle for a few months. I work to move on. Sometimes I'm angry at the world for not putting me on a pedestal. What can I say? It's the truth. I've been writing this book for sixteen months. Besides seeing different things I can't tell if I'm any different. I imagine there is safety or a place out there where I will be totally fucking happy instead of great times and bad. I accept the bad times less and less as the years go on and they're moving fast...too fast. I'd be a pussy if I said it bothered me. I felt no stress. I was building muscles on my body that I couldn't even see or feel or touch or smell. Much like a dog, I felt like a wanderer. A distant cousin to the canine family. We left Spain after listening to Char have diarrhea all night. It got on my nerves. I never knew a woman was capable of making such noises, "If you were the one sick."-she was yelling from the can, "...can't you just be nice."-"What?"-I asked laughing, "Don't worry."-she said, "I'm history in a couple weeks. Then you can girl it up with all these feminine things that don't poop."-what kind of girl would she be if she didn't tell her hair dresser everything. How can I seriously look her in the eyes down the line? How can I look at her kids and know that they could have mine? It can't be happening. Can't be happening. MONTEROSSA, Italy...we arrived around seven to this small fishing village after Char talked with a few Americans in Barcelona. this is where we both got food poisoned and I won her a stuffed animal. We took the local train, switched a total of three times and landed safely. Let's Go Europe describes Monterossa as a quaint little town. We paid L50.00 a night to sleep next to a man who looked like my grandfather. They put us in some apartment complex and said we could stay as long as we wanted. Outside the place was a carved statue of Neptune watching over and protecting the city. Charlie and I ate at the restaurant, ordered sea bass and a bottle of wine before retiring early. Waking up the next day I was sick. In fact, I didn't get out of bed until two. Char was sick as well but she managed to leave the room and mail her letters. She was disillusioned all the way until ten when she called me fart face and couldn't go to the bathroom. We hiked to a village one town over but I broke out with the sweats and had to sleep for the next four hours. I took five fake hiking pictures by a mound of dirt before that. The room smelled like infection and there were flies everywhere. One especially who did continuous circles above my head...yah...yah...yah...we kept calling him. The next day we left for Rome. The ride from La Spica was a tough one. Rome was dirty and sketchy. When we got off the train we were immediately labeled as tourists by guides of some sort. The legit ones had government issued badges but still it was very weird. We settled into a hotel and paid about 80 American. The Coliseum was right outside the window. All in all, Rome was different than we expected. The mountains didn't show anymore. The sun peaked around stones that may have been there since Christ, The Vatican and what have you. The sky was orange which meant the next day would be a good one. The fever had come and Char was still the same. After eating a bit we moved back to the hotel where I watch the English Patient in Italian until I fell asleep. My stomach hurt thinking about the trip to Milan. The hills and small cities on top of them. The Alps that divided the clouds. And Char...reading then in bed...what's the use of complaining anymore? We've moved past that. I could hear her thoughts unwinding while she looked at me. The time she cried in Vegas because I left her alone. The time I was going to move to San Fran and leave her behind. We'd done everything humanly possible in front of each other that two people could do. She swore she was in love with Satan and I felt she was about to snap and be checked into a funny farm. I have a hard time being a bigger man that the situation. The moment I looked at Char I knew she was different. My ex Rochelle wasn't. I only say because I owned her and eventually she hated me for it. Charlie was different. Black dress and football game in the same sentence kind of different. AND she is leaving me holding on to what? Jesus, I love this girl with all my heart. I really really do. I can't say goodbye. I can't pretend there is a chance I will not see her again for the rest of my life. She's just laying there watching, being gorgeous. I remember at that moment wanting things to be clear. I remember her laughing at me with those bubble gum cheeks. Charlie's hair was in front of those pretty green eyes. I wanted her to be happy so badly. She sat up and winked at me, "I love you so much, Julie."-she told me, "I love your face, your eyes, your mind, your stomach...I love everything about you. I want to take care of you because I know things are hard. I believe in you. I told everyone...I said...Jules is gonna shine. He's gonna shine."-I am reaching so high, inside the top of her mind with my tongue gently caressing her mouth, then down in between her legs and I'm watching her with her eyes closed suddenly and her head moving side to side against the pillow. And then she looks at me, rubs her hands all over the top of my head and I look at her...slip up to her face and enter her country. She is staring at me, burning to be inside my skin and humping and humping and humpi...to a place where a small boy is flying a model airplane with his grandfather in a park where nobody has ever taken him before. He is outside enjoying the sunlight on his face for one of the first times in his life and his grandpa is going to buy him an ice cream because that's what grandpa's do. And they stay there protected, they do, until the sun runs in the same direction and he looks at his grandpa doing something out of ordinary that makes him very happy. Other people gather and he watches the old man showing off and taking about what he knows. How he made the wood plane with own bare hands. He is proud of his grandpa. It's his dad's dad. It is the only thing that made sense that day. And in the foreground the boy is in the plane going wherever the wind takes him. Charlie loved her grandpa too. He is turning it off in the shade by a tree. They drive home in the new Monte Carlo where grandma has dinner already made. Later the neighborhood would turn to shit. The house would get broken into several times and a T.V. would be stolen. Grandma lets the boy try the salad to see if it's good, "Enough vinegar, Julie?"-she asks, "Perfect, Grandma."-he answers and smiles. And their conversation isn't important. He knows he is loved and that's all that matters. He experiences a momentary lapse in thought. Thinks about a girl at school who doesn't like him. Thinks of his telephone number and escorts the dog outside in the yard to pee...to a place where we lay with no principal in the universe. He's been taken to a place where I don't know. A place where only Charlie and I finally exist...I can feel it coming. I can feel her body. I rub my eyes and begin to cry coming back to her in my arms, "I love you. I love you with everything."-I tell her, smiling about what I can't say.
vol. ii, issue vi
dec. 20, 2004
fishdrinklikeus
