a long night
Harris was a good man. he had
all the best intentions for me in hand.
if I had to place him next to the wisest
man alive, I believe the wisest of them all would
even feel foolish among Harris.
the other night, Harris came over,
a Mark Twain book in one hand and
a pack of cigarettes in his right pocket,
light in the other.
I stayed home that day, drinking heavily, didn't
even bother going to the same wretched job
for the same wretched pay for the same
wretched managers who have the same
wretched bitch of a life back in his home.
"Must you be so childish and waste your days drinking?"
"It's a way of living. I drink for many things."
"Like?" he said, placing himself down on a chair I've
come to terms does not belong to me
anymore but more
him.
he lit a cigarette and watched
me.
"well, for example, I drink
for the fuck of it. I drink
to forget. forget the past. forget
the fucking crazy inside all of
the men in all of the bars and all
of those women. God, all of those women.
I drink, baby, to just forget that I have
loved and
that I love today, if
such a thing can be
said!"
as I spoke and explained
myself more and more
becoming more detailed and
getting into my own
sex life with stephanie and
the one that I met all those years ago
where I once sat and wrote
short stories,
I saw this shadow outside my window
move pass.
then a knock:
"Hello? My car broke down up the
street and I saw your light was on. I'm
sorry for coming this late at night."
it was a women. she sounded
beautiful.
Harris stood up
but I was already up on my legs,
staggering to the door and
unlocking it.
a beautiful Texan woman
stood there, blonde, 6ft, all
ass and a great amount of
leg for two men.
she watched me carefully.
"sorry for just showing up like this. my car broke down
and my phone has no signal for some reason down here. can I borrow your phone?"
she was a brave one to be coming in this late
at night into an apartment with two men, one drunk and the
other lighting his second cigarette
(not to her knowledge that Harris had smoked
another before she came).
I staggered back to the couch and reached for the
cordless phone on the table stand.
I turned back to her and handed
her the phone. "here you go."
"thank you," she said. she had a
genuinely beautiful southern accent.
deep. lovely.
she went to the kitchen area
which was connected to the living room
and spoke loudly. "yes, hello? my name is
Catherine Belle. I need a tow truck. my car died
up the street on . . . "
she looked at me and harris. "what street is this?"
I was going to answer
when Harris exhaled a stream of
white and said,
"Ware rd and Colbath, down south the
Expressway."
she repeated the address and said some
other things, nodding all the time,
smiling at the kindness, I
assume,
and hung up.
"thank you," she said and handed
me back the phone. "I should probably be heading back to
my car. thank you for letting me use your phone, mr . . ."
I answered: "Williams. Seth Williams."
"The writer? I've heard about you. You write good stuff for
someone that writes as vulgar as you do. it feels free. Real."
"don't encourage him," Harris said, pressing the
end of the cigarette on the ashtray. "so, what do you
do, Mrs. Belle?"
"please, call me Cath. I don't like much of that formal shit. I hear enough of it where I work."
"where's that?"
"IBC bank, morgage," she said.
Harris nodded. "I've worked a while at banks while I was in college."
"oh? may I ask what made you leave?"
"people do not realize how dead they are every morning when they wake up
at 6AM to piss
shower
wash their teeth
get dressed
drink some orange juice
force feed themselves some sort of breakfast
drive out into the madness of nothing
and still be told to be grateful to be making someone
else a lot of movie every day and be
told it's an opportunity to be working for that
company," Harris said.
Harris lit his third cigarette
and took a
long hit and
exhaled.
"well, those are some opinions you have there,
mr . . . "
"Just call me Harris. We're pass formal shit, remember?"
and the night went on like that for
several hours until
the tow truck man finally came
knocking on our door
saying that there was no one by the car
and that he was about to call the
cops since he heard it was a woman that called
and didn't see her by her car.
poor old man damn near had
a heart attack, panting and
heaving all sorts of sweat over his long
dark brow.
I offered him a beer and
harris a smoke.
he sat down on the other end of the couch
right next to Catherine
and the night went on
for hours
til the sun rose
and the stars
missed the sun
in the morning sky.
the next day I got a phone call from
harris, damn near sobbing,
drunk even, saying:
"I think I'm in love with Catherine. I can't get her out
of my head, seth."
I invited him over and offered him
glasses of wine and whiskey
and cold beers
and soon enough
he was no longer crying,
only laughter echoed from these white
apartment walls.
it was surely beautiful
once again.
all the best intentions for me in hand.
if I had to place him next to the wisest
man alive, I believe the wisest of them all would
even feel foolish among Harris.
the other night, Harris came over,
a Mark Twain book in one hand and
a pack of cigarettes in his right pocket,
light in the other.
I stayed home that day, drinking heavily, didn't
even bother going to the same wretched job
for the same wretched pay for the same
wretched managers who have the same
wretched bitch of a life back in his home.
"Must you be so childish and waste your days drinking?"
"It's a way of living. I drink for many things."
"Like?" he said, placing himself down on a chair I've
come to terms does not belong to me
anymore but more
him.
he lit a cigarette and watched
me.
"well, for example, I drink
for the fuck of it. I drink
to forget. forget the past. forget
the fucking crazy inside all of
the men in all of the bars and all
of those women. God, all of those women.
I drink, baby, to just forget that I have
loved and
that I love today, if
such a thing can be
said!"
as I spoke and explained
myself more and more
becoming more detailed and
getting into my own
sex life with stephanie and
the one that I met all those years ago
where I once sat and wrote
short stories,
I saw this shadow outside my window
move pass.
then a knock:
"Hello? My car broke down up the
street and I saw your light was on. I'm
sorry for coming this late at night."
it was a women. she sounded
beautiful.
Harris stood up
but I was already up on my legs,
staggering to the door and
unlocking it.
a beautiful Texan woman
stood there, blonde, 6ft, all
ass and a great amount of
leg for two men.
she watched me carefully.
"sorry for just showing up like this. my car broke down
and my phone has no signal for some reason down here. can I borrow your phone?"
she was a brave one to be coming in this late
at night into an apartment with two men, one drunk and the
other lighting his second cigarette
(not to her knowledge that Harris had smoked
another before she came).
I staggered back to the couch and reached for the
cordless phone on the table stand.
I turned back to her and handed
her the phone. "here you go."
"thank you," she said. she had a
genuinely beautiful southern accent.
deep. lovely.
she went to the kitchen area
which was connected to the living room
and spoke loudly. "yes, hello? my name is
Catherine Belle. I need a tow truck. my car died
up the street on . . . "
she looked at me and harris. "what street is this?"
I was going to answer
when Harris exhaled a stream of
white and said,
"Ware rd and Colbath, down south the
Expressway."
she repeated the address and said some
other things, nodding all the time,
smiling at the kindness, I
assume,
and hung up.
"thank you," she said and handed
me back the phone. "I should probably be heading back to
my car. thank you for letting me use your phone, mr . . ."
I answered: "Williams. Seth Williams."
"The writer? I've heard about you. You write good stuff for
someone that writes as vulgar as you do. it feels free. Real."
"don't encourage him," Harris said, pressing the
end of the cigarette on the ashtray. "so, what do you
do, Mrs. Belle?"
"please, call me Cath. I don't like much of that formal shit. I hear enough of it where I work."
"where's that?"
"IBC bank, morgage," she said.
Harris nodded. "I've worked a while at banks while I was in college."
"oh? may I ask what made you leave?"
"people do not realize how dead they are every morning when they wake up
at 6AM to piss
shower
wash their teeth
get dressed
drink some orange juice
force feed themselves some sort of breakfast
drive out into the madness of nothing
and still be told to be grateful to be making someone
else a lot of movie every day and be
told it's an opportunity to be working for that
company," Harris said.
Harris lit his third cigarette
and took a
long hit and
exhaled.
"well, those are some opinions you have there,
mr . . . "
"Just call me Harris. We're pass formal shit, remember?"
and the night went on like that for
several hours until
the tow truck man finally came
knocking on our door
saying that there was no one by the car
and that he was about to call the
cops since he heard it was a woman that called
and didn't see her by her car.
poor old man damn near had
a heart attack, panting and
heaving all sorts of sweat over his long
dark brow.
I offered him a beer and
harris a smoke.
he sat down on the other end of the couch
right next to Catherine
and the night went on
for hours
til the sun rose
and the stars
missed the sun
in the morning sky.
the next day I got a phone call from
harris, damn near sobbing,
drunk even, saying:
"I think I'm in love with Catherine. I can't get her out
of my head, seth."
I invited him over and offered him
glasses of wine and whiskey
and cold beers
and soon enough
he was no longer crying,
only laughter echoed from these white
apartment walls.
it was surely beautiful
once again.