Time drags on. His new meds made him hungry and sleepy. It was like he was smoking weed but without the high. He didn’t know what he was going to do about that.
He managed to get out to the bar. Had four beers, got into some conversation, met someone who was SZA. The poor soul was kind of lost though, stopping his sentences short, asking odd questions. “Are you European? Why are angry? Are we fighting now?”
The man felt a lot of sympathy but didn’t really know what to do or say. He told the guy to relax.
Seeing someone who’s worse off does a lot to the mind. No wonder people stick to their own. It could have fed the man’s ego as he had beaten his illness, but it also made him distraught to see someone else who was in a state that no one could help.
He wanted the exchange to end. He hoped the best for the guy but from the conversation he had gather the man was probably had no access to the Internet, had no job and was probably hungry or even homeless.
Doesn’t really go well with an early Saturday buzz.
He wasn’t ready to move on, but he couldn’t spend anymore. He was already behind on his budget by two weeks or so.
Resentfully he settled his tab and started the walk home.
He was lucky, telepathy or not, he was going to live a good life.
On that night he was oddly excited. He had just met some new people through playing poker. Also throughout that he had consumed half a 750 of vodka. He wasn’t carrying the same weight he used to. In an odd state of having a light spirit he ventured back to his favorite bar to get a coffee. It was getting dark and it was sprinkling. Under the trees though he was staying relatively dry.
The humidity was thick, that was his only issue. It was causing him to overheat and sweat. He was thankful for the occasional breeze temporarily relieving him from his discomfort.
He had his headphones in and cycled through a few song by the house electric band “daft punk.”
We are human, after all…
Much in common, after all…
An ode to all those who were different. Telling them to carry on and be themselves.
His pace was brisk, as he was intoxicated and riled up. He didn’t know what the bar would hold but he had established a presence there.
He ordered a latte. He found it humorous that the man who prepared it saw fit to put a heart in the foam. Blondie had done that a few times when he first started going there. The thing was resilient too, after all his sips and gulps the image was still set in the quarter inch of steamed milk.
He thought on the blonde. Hoping he might see her in the morrow. It was Bloody Mary Sunday and she always made them best.
It’s a fictional character sketch from Garrison Keillor on Prairie Home Companion.
This piece of your reminds me of one of those sketches. He is a private investigator, or works in the criminal department of the police, and a lot of the stories
are like mysteries, or life experiences that Guy encounters, usually ends humorously though. I’m just wondering if you could turn your piece into something like that, where there is a crime or a happening that Guy is forced to deal with.