Telluride told me he’d give me a ride. I was done talking to who I wanted to talk to, and I needed a ride. It’s embarrassing. I’m not wearing this suit because it looks good or is comfortable. I’m fully aware of what it is, and how ridiculous it looks on me. And yet, I must wear it. It’s okay.
At least I have a purpose. Do you? Never mind.
So, it’s a big city and I don’t have a car. No big. A lot of people don’t. A lot of people are poor. A lot of people shit purple shits. I just needed the ride because taking the train while wearing the suit is one giant pain in the ass.
I’d call him, but I dropped my phone in that puddle over there, or I lost it when I was drunk. I don’t remember. It’s gone, that’s all I know. Phone booths are gone, so I am shit out of luck.
Good for me.
I walk to the corner. Which is nowhere near my apartment made of shit. It’s not that bad, but it is. Sure, I clean it. Landperson comes by every few weeks to check the place out. is that legal? Not sure. I clean it when I have a lady over. That was six months ago. Her name was…something. She only had one eye. I met her on the way to the fabric store- needed some kevlar to patch my suit. Said fabric store didn’t carry kevlar, it was all felt and princessshit patterns and etc. Before that happened, however, she came down same path I was on. This was at Moore-point Lifestyle retail plaza-dome. She tripped, she dropped a coffee, it was mostly empty, it came careening out and it hit the toe of my suit.
I laughed. Nothing stains the suit.
Awkwardly, I bent at the waist the pick up the lid. No small feat in the suit. But, as these things go, she was cute. After I laughed, she laughed too, probably at the ridiculousness of the situation, my messed-up hair, the suit, whatever.
She said oddly enough, “Okay, let’s piece this together.”
I thought she had meant the cup, it was in two parts, the lid and the cup. But she actually meant everything. Everything up to that point- Her, me, the suit, the shopping center, the coffee and the coffee cup, the worn out hole right under my rib cage that is always staring at me, the shitpartment, Noodles for dinner, everything, everything. That’s what it came down to after that, after the failure of the fabric store, it came to noodles for dinner.
I knew a joint where they made the noodles the old-fashioned way- by buying them from a supplier. Probably came from a place that is a thousand miles from here. Didn’t matter, shit still tasted good, and I figured it would impress her.
This street, it’s cleaner than expected. No matter, Still waiting for this ride. I called Telluride because he has a minivan. And when we remove one row of seats, I can fit in real well. His van is about 100 years old, red and rusty. Still plays music the old way. Telluride is on one those “New Pioneer” types, rich in character and ideas, starts things in a heightened buzz of enthusiasm and then it peters out, dies out, supernovas out as quick as he decided it would come.
But he is good for a ride.
New Pioneers are guys and gals who are interested in invoking the “diy spirit” Working as a purpose onto itself. Your own farm at home, hoed by a hoe you forged yourself or some nonsense bullshit like that.
I had roommates like them in training. I mostly listened to electronic music and pretended to do drugs while drinking straight from the bottle.
Telluride was not one of those roommates. I met him after that particular episode. I met him at work, when we both had jobs, which, coincidentally was the same one. We assembled tables and chairs for major food outlets. They were always opening one somewhere in our district, so there was always work. We’d spend all day lifting these plastic tables and chairs out of the truck, hauling them inside, assembling them with screwguns and bolting them to the floor. Mindless, unless they changed the floorplan on you, which they did with awesome frequency.
Telluride and I would assemble these things, drinking from little bottles of booze, talk about shit. Which is about as specific as I can get, because we, well, we did drink a lot.
He had a different car every week it seemed, all bought and traded from a Sikh car dealer he knew down on the south end of town.
“Hey man.” He said to me one day.
“Hey.” I take a drink.
“Where’d you get your jeans?”
“‘Cause I need to know where not to get jeans, ‘cause those jeans look like shit.”
“The jeans look like shit or they look like shit on me?”
That’s the day he showed up in a minivan.
“If you don’t have kids, why the fuck a minivan?”
“They are popular with painters, which is good, honest work, driven by decent family men who need flexibility and efficiency in their choice of personal transportation.”
I guess I smiled at that and then we went back to look for unfinished cigarettes in the ashtrays.
Let’s be honest. Is Telluride coming to pick me up or not? I can walk home from here, it’s hot now, and I’d ending sweating myself half to mostly to all dead. Not really the time for that, not sure there really is a time for that, we can just wait it out, if we want to, but I’m not the ruminating type, especially when I’m waiting for a ride, especially when I need a drink, probably that six-pack waiting from at the shitpartment, especially the train that I pretend that runs past that lulls me to sleep, especially when I’m thinking about something, that ass in that something’s skirt walking in front of me, all white, all black, especially at night, when it’s dark, especially when there’s no clouds that night, where I can see the stars, especially when I remember that time where men and women walked up there wearing the suits I wear now, when they were useful, when they were doing something, something for everybody, instead of just waiting, waiting, like I do, standing here, sweating and waiting for a ride from Telluride.