Friday, June 06, 2008

This is why I won't write a novel for you

The Atlantic ocean smells of turpentine. Its gray waves wash over me. The sky is overcast and the sun is dull. I smell the salt air and I watch the matronly obese cavort in the sea.

I saw her leave. Now I am the youngest person on the beach by ten years. I have a headache brought on by too much time at the beach. My bladder is full. Anytime I am near the ocean I feel an overwhelming need to urinate.

I walk down steps from the bay shore to the public bathroom. It reeks of stale urine. My head tilts. I peer into the urinal and watch a gold stream splash a urine cake. A deodorizing scent from the steam escapes towards me. I no longer smell the salt air, or the stench from human release. I smell only cancer. If cancer had a smell, I imagine it would be the smell of pissed on urinal cakes located in the back of public beach bathrooms along the Atlantic coast.

I've watched her for two hours. She has come to the ocean with friends. I take the shriveled penis and place it back in my trunks.

She sat on the sand not two hundred yards from me. She displayed to the world her modesty only. She wore shorts and a long sleeved shirt over a bathing suit. Her friends wore tiny bikinis. Each girl had a cowboy hat perched atop their heads. Their bloodshot eyes were hidden behind the fashionably large sunglasses of the 1970's.

She left with her friends, but I did not follow. I have no inclination. I Am sure I know where she is headed. I imagine she is on her way back to her parents. She will eat supper and then she will jump into her Jeep Wrangler and drive home. Alone.

I know where she works. I know much of her daily routine. I know that she is a careless person who drops her keys. I know she insists on stops at nearby donut shops for coffee when she is 30 minutes late for work.I take my time.

I enjoy even the smells of cancer on the beach. I am content to be alone. I walk back from the restroom to my beach towel on the sand. I pack my suntan lotion, and my camera phone with music player. I place those things in the pouch of my collapsible chair with built in umbrella. I stare at the ground and march the trek back to the public parking lot. I avoid the large shells and rocks that could cut my feet.

I place only the beach things in the trunk of my car. The black paint has greedily absorbed the sun today. The Volvo 740 is without air conditioning, so I drive with the windows rolled down. The car stereo works, but is not connected to the speakers.Beside me in the passenger seat is an old am/fm receiver with a large speaker.

I leave it in the seat with my windows down and the door unlocked. I have left the radio unguarded in the seat for 9 months. No one has stolen it. I switch it on and the batteries are still good. I turn the dial to the classic rock station and turn the volume up as high as it will go. At highway speeds with the wind and noise of traffic I can just make out the melody of what is playing.

My Volvo has a responsive turbo engine. I purchased the car from Vincent. I offered him 900 dollars and he promised to deliver me the title. Vincent left to San Fransisco and he never sent me the title. I drive without the title and insurance because the tags are good for 2 more years. If I do not attract attention from the police unnecessarily I should be able to drive without any of the inconvenience and cost of registration. 900 dollars well spent.
"I can kick your ass!"

She wants to test my strength. She rushes at me. Her fists are balled tightly. Her arms windmill. I grab her by the wrists and and throw her on the bed. My knees pinch her thighs apart.

I can sense the fear now. Her pale complexion has gone white. Nervous perspiration beads across her forehead. She tilts her neck upwards. I meet her forehead with mine. "Don't even fucking think you can take me." I mutter into her ear. A small smile breaks out onto her face. The futility of her arm movements cease. I relax my grip on her wrists. The prickly flow of blood returns to her hands.
I wake on my bed. The curtains are drawn and no light penetrates them. I have a painful erection. The alarm clock reads 1:36 am. I listen to the ceiling fan whirl above me. I cannot go back to sleep. I start work in only 7 hours.

If I don't get back to sleep I will be tired all day. I warn myself. I ignore my own advice. I roll out of bed and fall in a heap onto the floor. I walk sleepily into the computer office I share with my roommate. I turn on his computer and open the Internet. I check my mail and MySpace. I have several accounts.

Work is dull. I pass the time by daydreaming as much as possible. I work as a cashier at a grocery store. Sometimes customers give me 40 second breaks while they search for exact change. They rifle through their purses and billfolds like old men on the beach treasure hunting with metal detectors. When they find the nickel and two pennies buried at the bottom they exclaim aloud with the pride of a juvenile displaying his latest creation with crayons to an exasperated parent.

I think they see in me a look of wistfulness and mistake it for admiration or approval. I am just returning to the real world. In my mind I have been playing basketball. I have been enjoying the lustful embrace of their adolescent child who waits besides them.

The child is urging her parent forward with rolled eyes and a carefully constructed look of aloofness. All this dirty bill paying parents must do. All this food shopping and talking to the help is beneath them. They have text messaging to do. They have black mascara to apply in heaps and gobs. But sometimes I get a peek at the budding cleavage. That is my little secret. I do not tell mother. I do not tell father. I smile back at the parents. I take the change from them and treat it like the hero's quest has been fulfilled. I must get off the floor.

The break room is not a respite. I suffer through stories from a middle aged woman who feels no need for an age appropriate hair cut. She tells me her ex-husband called her late last night to confide in her that he was arrested for child molestation.

I like the idea that the ex-husband has no one else to turn to other than his swinging ex wife when confronted by the police. He lies to the police and suggests an alibi can be found with his former lover. She is outraged that her good name has been sullied by accusations of pederasty. She had no such modesty when informing me of her participation in her husbands alcohol fueled fetishes.

I dislike her immensely for her disloyalty. Even when a romance goes bad one should remember the special bond one promises during coitus. It is no real surprise to me that she lacks morality. We live in an unethical society. All around us there is dishonor, there is suffering. There is no nobility left in the human animal. Our days are filled by the endless droning on of television. We pursue goals. We function despite constant encounters with stupidity. The Elders of Zion, the corporate fat cats, our elected leaders, they must all sit back and laugh at us each day. It is no wonder they take us for fools. We suffer for them.

We live in the same building. I can't imagine that is coincidence, though you would. I must admit I find "fate" or such ideas to be laughable. I am not as certain as I was before. Moral certainty is the only crime left to modern man. I will speak more to you on this, but right now you are not ready. I do not wish to confuse you by interloping the tale and my lessons so early.

You wish to know more about her. What is the color of her hair? It is black. The color of an ethnic Italian. Thankfully she does not have the full blood of an Italian flowing in her. I have been entranced by exotic and beautiful women before, only then to glance down at their arms to see that they are covered in dark hair. I cannot hide my contempt. I must look away. I must cease my conversations with such people. I have a fear of the malformed. My fear is natural. I will not apologize for it.

I want to follow her. The girl on the beach. But I have no idea how you go about it. I must tell you that I am not a stalker. I am only interested in following her (ok stalking if you must) as an intellectual exercise.

I am curious what it would be like. To follow. I wonder what sorts of things I could discover. I wonder what kind of changes would overcome me if I really committed to the idea of following.

I think her eyes are green. Women with green eyes disturb me. They look sick. Most green eyed women have hepatitis. Green eyes are the genetic result of jaundice. It is well established fact that I will not argue. Since I have alerted you to this one fact, perhaps you will take the good will I have engendered and apply it to understanding my endeavor.

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