Mr. Camp’s Nightly Ritual

Jeremy stood in the wash of dull light offered by his fridge. He didn’t know what he wanted, he rarely did. There was no hankering. Jeremy had been hanker-less for some time. There was only a deep sense of dissatisfaction that bloated his belly. Still, Jeremy stood with his left arm propping open the fridge door, head angled from his shoulders vulture-like, staring into the depths of his fridge, hoping for anything to appeal to him.  His check down of the available food is pointless, he already knows what he’s gonna eat.  Still, might as well put on a good show. Micro waved falafels are shit, but having it in the fridge presents him as international.  He hadn’t liked the lentil thingy the first time, but he hated to waste, at least right away.  Jeremy played through the scenarios of what it would take to reheat the pad thai, or to assemble the fish tacos from Wednesday.  There wasn’t enough milk for cereal, thanks to the three bowls he ate for dinner.  An egg salad sandwich sounded good, but that meant boiling eggs, which he didn’t have the energy for.  Jeremy’s labored exhale seemed to say “I got a side stitch from switching sides of the couch for Christ’s sake.”   Since all other options had been exhausted, there really wasn’t anything left to do but eat one of the Heath bars. He reached his hand into the Costco size box, the sheer number of bars as intoxicating as chest full of lesbians promising a tickle fight.  Jeremy froze the image of tickling lesbians and admonished himself, they can probably read my thoughts, fuck me, I sound like a douche.

Jeremy hadn’t even got the delicious English toffee to his lips when he was startled into a “what the fuck?”  The Luxuria profiling Agent had been standing there the whole time.  Jeremy’s Heath bar had flown from his hands and landed in the forbidding crevasse that was the space between his fridge and the wall. Jeremy pinned his head against the wall and reached his arm into the crevasse, into roach territory, the candy bar was by all rights theirs now.  As Jeremy felt around blindly for the lost meal he scolded the Luxuria agent, “why can’t you guys give some warning that you’re lurking around? You scared the”…Jeremy’s interest in admonishment vanished as his finger grazed across the Heath bar. Eureka! The roaches could suck it! The dark sugary treasure was once again in his hands. Jeremy sat against the wall, a bit winded from holding his breath and stretching his arm out, it felt a lot like a yoga class really.  He deserved a snack after all that.

The Profiling Agent looked down at Jeremy without judgment. That was there thing, no judgment, no opinions, just unbiased recording and gathering of facts.  Yet the cool, nonjudgmental stare of the agent burrowed into Jeremy’s mind and snatched out all of his guilt and laid it right on the floor for both of them to look at.  “OK. I eat more chocolate than I reported. I didn’t want to seem like a fat ass all right, Jeremy confessed. “Mr. Camp, we have gone over this already. Everything I observe is confidential.  Lying to an Advocate or behaving in any manner alien to your regular patterns of behavior will result in a false positive. Three failed matches and you will have to wait a year before you can apply for another personality reconnaissance. Not to mention the cost to yourself”. Ashamed, Jeremy offered apologies. “You needn’t apologize to me Mr. Camp. I am your Advocate and have taken an oath to help you. To do that you must be yourself”. It was too much for Jeremy, “It’s too embarrassing to be me. I mean, I jerk off every night just to unwind. How am I supposed to be myself when I do shit like that?” Jeremy snapped at the Advocate. The Advocate assured Jeremy that his honest confession would go a long way in building an accurate profile. Jeremy’s response was an explosion, “But I don’t want that to be accurate about me.  And I sure as fuck don’t want it to be the reason I get hooked up with somebody.” Jeremy pleaded with the Advocate, “I need to be get at least an 80% likability score. All my friends that are happy are 80’s or higher. How do I do that?” The Advocate’s response was soft, almost empathetic, “you must be yourself, Mr. Camp”. Jeremy was defeated, “but I don’t want to be myself. I want to be an 80.” he said. In the silence Jeremy found a small bit of resolve and scolded the Advocate, “you’re my Advocate so advocate me into a fucking 80!”.

Now the Advocate leveraged a bit of humanity to secure the deal. “Mr. Camp, not long ago in our society the divorce rate had reached over fifty percent.  You were more likely to fail at marriage than succeed. Couples grew apart for myriad reasons. Worse, they were never right for each other and yet spent years ignoring their instincts.  We changed that.  No one need ever again wake up to realize they have been in a nine-year one-night stand.  After our time together Luxuria will know who you truly are, and be able to match you to the person with whom are best suited.  Can you see how that would be of benefit to you Mr. Camp?”

“Yes”. Jeremy was completely sold, again.  Man, these guys are good.  Jeremy, the picture of compliance asked, “What should we do now?”  The bit of humanity from the moment before was gone. The advocate was once again a human recorder.

“Do what you would normally do Mr. Camp.” Jeremy’s fuck it was inaudible under his heavy sigh, clearly heard however was, “well, I’m tired, so I guess I should jerk-off and go to sleep”.

The advocate nodded and Mr. Camp concluded his night per usual.

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Daily Prompt: Write Here, Write Now

by michelle w. on January 29, 2014

Write a post entirely in the present tense.

The quite is comforting now. The older girl is fast asleep in her room. My other two girls are settling into sleep. The bigger girl, the one I call my wife is feeding the three month old. The quiet is sumptuous. The quiet feels the way coffee smells in the morning. 

I’m breathing the quiet in deep. Savoring every millisecond. The electric heater in the dinning room is the loudest thing in the apartment right now. It trying to lull me to sleep, but I’m on to you. You can’t have my quiet time. I’m giving that to Netflix, or Facebook. I have a shit ton on the DVR. 

MMmmmmmm. Its still here. At least seven minutes of quiet, I used to play a similar game. This one is better. A restorative blanket I cozy up under and chase away the chill.

There’s that hum of the the heater again, shushing me. I’m swaddled in my big blue couch, all the things I want to do with my quiet time are at the end of a hallway that keeps getting longer. I can run after them…but…shhhhh…net…shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…face…..shhhhhhhh

jimmie….shhhhhhhhh

Once(s)

Here’s bunches of once(s).

I once took three drops in the eye and afterward I could see so well I weaved through throngs of people just like Han did through the asteroid field.

once thought myself an alien in a dead bowling alley nobody knew existed but was naturalized when I read the piece of paper sitting on my fingertip. The paper said be free. Don’t worry about what you look like because nobody is looking at you. On page two of that single piece of paper atop my fingertip it read, ‘once public solitude you don’t care if people are looking at you, and then you’ll truly be seen’.

Once I spun an incense stick into a frenzy. Making its ember sing for me. Like a little sun it spun and spun until it lost its likeness to a sun and became a fat pair of lips that sang karaoke for me. After the perfumed lap dance the girl sitting across the room said ‘”wow! it looked like that incense stick was singing”. I wish she would have said something cooler.

once spent the night in a friends bathroom laughing and smoking and making up stories about fairies and spaceships and angry elves who felt put upon. All while my friend held his left hand submerged in cold water for fear of it catching fire.

Once I danced in a field all night under a cool Colorado sky. I felt safe in the dark. We all did. And the sun peaked up and chased away our comfort. We took the back roads home, following the mountain ridge south. We stopped at a four way intersection to relieve ourselves. The road was littered with onions the size of softballs. It meant something then. I wish it still did.

Once I stood under a tree and made love to the Wyoming wind. It caressed my arms and nibbled my ear and told me I would never be cold again. There was somebody standing on the porch but they weren’t looking at me. Probably making love themselves.

once looked into an angels eyes. She had to have been an angel because all I could see was brilliant white beams of light shooting out of pools of green. The angel was gone when the sun came home, so too was my friend, though she lay next to me.

Onces, and onces, and once again. I have happy onces, but these are the onces visiting tonight.

Jimmie G.

DP: Obstacle Course |Metaphor is a pushy jerk.

Daily Prompt: Obstacle Course

by michelle w. on January 27, 2014

Think about what you wanted to accomplish last week. Did you? What are the things that hold you back from doing everything you’d like to do?

I wanted to write everyday last week but didn’t. I think I got two posts in. I don’t count the Daily Dude Quotes. I would have to say the main obstacle has been fear.

Fear that the idea in my head will not be so pretty when actualized on the screen. While its in the ole noggin it has potential . It could be the thing that lifts my family out lower middle class, if we are indeed that high up.

Right now my ideas are perfect kernels in a jar. Once I start popping I could burn some, or all. Over salting is an issue. In my house we like to put a couple dashes of soy in the bowl and sprinkle with nutritional yeast.  Any topping of which can be curious to new palates.  Distasteful. Sometimes I worry that my ingredients will be offense, but not often. The biggest worry is that I will ruin the kernels.

After the popping popcorn analogy has run dry I’m faced with good ole laziness and lack of drive. Also I have a seven year old and a three month old. Here’s another ‘also’. I haven’t gone for a run since my new baby was born. I could get up early, which is the same as saying sleep even less, and take a run. But then I run into laziness and drive again, not my best friends lately. So really, the blame lands on the shoulders of metaphor. We all know what a jerk metaphor can be.

Jimmie G

The Quit.

A long time friend recently posted on Facebook asking for advice with her struggle to kick the smoking habit. She had been doing very well but lapsed and so reached out to a few of her friends that have successfully walked away form smoking. I am one such friend.

I started smoking in the ninth grade for the lamest and most unoriginal reason there is. Because it was cool. I don’t know if I even knew anyone else that smoked. I just thought it would be cool. Thats how unoriginal I am. This is back in the day of cigarette machines. You slide the quarters in then select a the knob for the brand you like and give it a pull, pulling other things was just around the corner for me.  After the pull, the box, or soft pack if that was your thing, would slide out. More shocking than ‘back in the day of cigarette machines’, this was back in the day when a ninth grader could buy a pack of smokes with nary a questioning look.

And so started a love affair of more than twenty years.

I never jonesed for a smoke in high school. I could go the whole night without a drag. Although I remember the early morning smoke while waiting for the bus was a big thing form me. Morning break and lunch was all about the Dog House where my friends, and other fellow smokers gathered. The Dog House was exactly what it sounds like. I small stand where Hot Dogs and other food-like things were sold, but that was some eighteen years before Michal’s ‘Dilemma‘, so we ate the dogs and the chili cheese Fritos and called it a balanced meal.

With college came even more freedom, and time to smoke. So I did. And that cute little kitty in my belly, that only purred once in a while for a night time smoke started to meow. By the time a left college the kit had transformed into a little monster with long spindly tentacles wrapped through and around my lungs. Smoking was a salve for the beast and it would squeeze my lungs until they turned icy cold if I waited to long to deliver the beasts smoky remedy. I didn’t mind the beast though. It was quite right that a smoke after a big meal was very satisfying. In fact, a smoke after anything that was big, great, or traumatic, was satisfying. The smoke was equally satisfying in alleviating the boring or mundane. Smoking was an activity which meant I would always have something to do.

And so I kept smoking through grad school. And I kept being satisfied. I even kept smoking after I got married, even my wife had said she didn’t want to marry a smoker. I said that’s cool because I loved this gal and I really want to be with her, way more than smoking. Still, I didn’t quit. The same gal also asked me to become Catholic, which I did. So I kept the more important part of the deal in my estimation.

Post grad school the wife and I moved to New York. We both got jobs, she went back to school, and I started pursuing a career as an actor and a closet smoker. But a closet only from my wife. My days were spent calendaring how I could get smoke time in and then clean up time so I wouldn’t reek from the smoke time. This would invariably blow up in my face once or twice a year, because she knew. Of course she knew. Smoke doesn’t just wash away with public bathroom hand soap, or cologne, or Frebreeze. Mouth wash can’t kill, peppermints don’t do shit, no matter how curious their strength is. Smoke is the roach of smells. It can’t be killed by anything than a blast of chemicals. And just like you have to drown a roach in Raid until that last violent kick of life, you must drown yourself in steaming hot water and a thick soapy lather and your clothes as well. But smokers can’t smell. When your in the tobacco lust you can’t smell the stink. Its too sexy.

Even the birth of my first beautiful little girl couldn’t chase the monster from my chest. I  halfheartedly tried several times. But the monster could always since my insincerity. It would leave like a friend loaning an apartment. It knew it would have a place to come back to. Sometimes I was forced to quit for a few days, several even. Instead of a dry run of what it could be like to break the chains it felt like an exquisite tease. My tongue would swell with the anticipation of fire burning paper. My nose hairs would stand on end straining to find that tendril of smoke sliding off the end of a Camel Wide. Oh yes, Camel Wides. Because why inhale a little cancer when you can have twice as much for the same cost? A few days into my tobacco furlough my lungs would go from constricted, bent old men, to nubile and young yogis, ready to do some downward dog all damn day. And the expansion in my lungs felt great, but it didn’t make me want to quit. It made me feel like I had so much more room to fill with smoke. So I did.

But one day my daughter, then almost two years old, put a pencil in her mouth and mimicked blowing smoke. She was copying me. It made me feel deeply ashamed. And yet I lived with the shame for a while afterward.  I continued to work my overnight shift smoking away and then washing my hair and face in the kitchen sink at work. I would eye half smoked cigarettes on the ground like winning lotto tickets. I would hate how enslaved I was to smoking as I relished the hypnotic pull of smoke from my mouth into my nose and the super cool push back out my mouth, like I was playing the didgeridoo on a cancer stick. So just like a heroin junkie I turned to another drug to break my dependance on a drug! Chantix! 

The warning label said it may cause suicidal tendencies. So can quitting smoking. It also warned there could be severe irritability. Again, so does quitting anything fun and awesome. Vivid dreams was also a side effect. I’ve paid good money for that same effect, many times. Quitting was to be referred to as ‘The Quit’.  So I referred to it as such. I lived near enough to Brooklyn that being pretentious was not frowned upon.

The bare bones laymen explanation of this wonder drug goes like this. Imagine Chantix is like late Thanksgiving evening.  You have had some much good food you can’t eat another bit of anything. Ice cream is too much, the most delectable dessert could be pulled fresh from the oven but you are just too full. Chantix takes away the physical desire to smoke. You feel like you have chained smoked your fill and just don’t want anymore.

I bought a second $140 bottle just in case the next month proved difficult.  It was hard but I never smoked another cigarette again.  The desire didn’t completely leave for well over a year. That monster kept stopping by to see how the old place was doing. But he never got back in. I ran a full marathon a year after quitting, and several half-marathons since. I have also gained forty pounds. But that is ice cream and cakes fault. And beer.

I started this journal entry to say, in the longest, most round about way as possible, that ‘The Quit’ is hard. It sucks balls and there’s no way around it. Its going to suck! It will be hard and terrible and you will want to have a smoke almost every second of every day. It will feel like you are under water and out of breathe. But you will get through it. One day, you will get through most of the morning without that crippling desire. Then a morning and an afternoon. Then you’ll get shit on by your boss, or a friend, and you’ll get through it without smoking. One night you’ll get shitty drunk and you won’t need a smoke to calm the scotch. One day+One day+One day+One day+

Jimmie G

Allen Smith’s 7-a

This play was written for Tax Deducible Theatre’s The Dare Project. Which is a series of ten minute plays written on a dare. The dare can be anything, a single word or phrase, genre, color, or complete nonsense. The Dare Project was a chance for the audience to commission a play.  I wrote five plays for txd. This is play number two.

The Dare: A love story that takes place on the last day of earth.

The scene takes place in Central Park about ten minutes before the world is destroyed by a ‘Red state sized asteroid.’

 Allen, a man in his early thirties and Sarah, a woman in her mid-twenties are dressing themselves as the lights come up. There is a video camera set up down stage recording the couple.

Allen

(Pulls out an old piece of paper)

Check and Check with a double underline and three stars. Thanks for helping me complete my list Sarah. It means a lot to me.

Sarah

I’m glad to help. But you checked twice. What else did you complete?

 (Allen hands the list to Sarah then scratches behind ear)

Sarah

Videotape making love to a beautiful woman, ‘Check, double underline and three stars’. Thanks Allen. Graduate from high school by 16, check. Go to Harvard and MIT, check and check. (glances over list) The lovemaking was one check but everything else seems like it was checked off a long time ago.

Allen

Look between numbers seven and eight. (Allen scratches behind his right ear)

Sarah

(After reading 7A Sarah looks up at Allen with a smile)

7A; fall in love, check. When did you write this list?

Allen

When I was nine.

Sarah

You wanted to video tape making love to a beautiful woman since you were nine Allen?

Allen

No. Actually, I wrote that one last night. After we found the camera…and the third time we made love.

Sarah

Nine is still  pretty young to know you want to fall in love. I thought boys had cooties until I was twelve.

Allen

I didn’t really know what love was other than knowing that I loved my parents, She-Ra and ketchup sandwiches. But my dad was always telling my mom how much he loved her and I wanted to be just like my dad. So I added 7A. (scratches behind ear)

 Sarah

It looks like you have scratched out a couple of checks next to it.

Allen

Twice I thought I was in love. Twice I realized I wasn’t. There is a weird grey area between ‘I really like you’ and ‘I love you’ where saying ‘I really like you’ isn’t enough and saying ‘I love you’ is too much. Both times I said ‘I love you’ because I didn’t know what else to call what I was feeling.

Sarah

This list is amazing Allen. All the goals you’ve set and accomplished. I don’t think you should waste a check on me.

Allen

It’s not a waste Sarah.

Sarah

Allen, I think your emotions feel bigger than they really are because of the whole end of the world thing.

Allen

Maybe. But even if we are in the ‘grey area’ we’ll be gone long before we know it. So I’m calling it love. In fact lets get married. We have a great how we first met story. I met the woman of my dreams while looting Macy’s the day before the earth blew up. The fur section? All the minks we ruined.

Sarah

And the sables.

Allen

And the chinchillas. (scratches behind ear. Allen gets the shakes like a chill running down his spine)

Sarah

Mmm…the chinchillas. That was the best. I didn’t know I could bend that way.

Allen

Our how we met story is great. We know the how we ended story will be biblical. We don’t have the time to screw anything up. So lets do it! Sarah…what’s your last name?

Sarah

Davies.

Allen

Sarah Davies will you be my wife to have and to hold? For richer or poorer? For as long as the earth does exist?

Sarah

What the hell! I do! Do you promise to be completely devoted to me for the rest of your life Allen…

Allen

Smith.

Sarah

And be my 7A Allen Smith?

Allen

I do! (They cement their promise to each other with a kiss) Oww! This zit is getting worse.  (the shakes get worse as well, progressing to something like bad break-dancing over the next few lines)

Sarah

Let me have a look. I worked in the cosmetics department at Macy’s for six months. (Sarah examines the zit) This is the biggest zit I have ever seen. Just relax and take deep breathes. Breathe in through the nose and exhale through the mouth. And again through the nose and out through the mouth (she has thumb nails at the ready) On three, one; in through the nose, two, out through…(Sarah attacks the zit with her thumb nails)

Allen

OOWWWW! Damn you woman! You said on three.

Sarah

I’m so sorry. I thought it would help if I surprised you.

Allen

Man. That hurt.

Sarah

I don’t think it’s a zit anyway. It’s huge and hard as a rock.

Allen

Thanks for tryouchy, ouchy, ouchy! (Allen screws up his face as the zit flares up, he tries to shakes it off) Sorry. I think I actually heard a beeping sound in my head that time. Anyway, where should we honeymoooWWW! Son-of-a-bitch.

Sgt. Tanner

(Offstage) I heard something; I’m going to try again Genesis. (The Sgt. comes onstage. He is holding a device that has been the cause of Allen’s pain)

Allen

OOOWWWW! OOOWWW! OOOOOWWWWWW!

(Allen is in full on break-dance mode at this point)

Sgt. Tanner

I found the Doctor Genesis. (Activates the location beacon causing Allen to scream once more)

Allen

What the hell!? Has it been you making my head hurt this whole time?

Sgt. Tanner

Yes doctor. The pain you have felt is the location beacon inserted behind your right ear being activated. All VIP’s were outfitted with the beacons some time ago. I’ve been looking for you since you missed your shuttle yesterday.

Allen

How is it possible that I didn’t know about being “outfitted”?

Sgt. Tanner

Secrecy was necessary doctor, due to Bubba Gate. Madame President had the beacons fitted with a kill switch so that if any one chosen for the Genesis Rescue became undesirable they could be eliminated.

Sarah

You’re a VIP?

Sgt. Tanner

He’s the VIP. Doctor Allen Ezekiel Smith, lead architect of the Genesis Rescue Program, and designing engineer of the Genesis Rescue Shuttle. There’s one more shuttle left to launch doctor and there’s one more seat for you.

Allen

That’s great. Sarah we’re getting out of here!

Sgt. Tanner

I’m sorry doctor but there is only room for one.

Allen

You can’t expect me to leave her behind. She’s my…my wife. She’s my wife, you can’t ask a man to leave his wife behind.

Sgt. Tanner

Wife? I wasn’t aware…(into walkie-talkie) Genesis, the doctor is here with his wife. (garbled response from walkie-talkie) Affirmative Genesis, his wife. He’s not going to leave without her. (Garbled response) Great, just fucking great! We were not aware that you were married doctor and there is room for only one on the last shuttle.

Allen

Make room for my wife. Dump fuel if you have to, but make room.

Sgt. Tanner

38% of the fuel has already been dumped to allow for additional passengers. The shuttle will have just enough boost to make it into orbit. I’m sorry doctor.

Allen

What additional passengers?

Sgt. Tanner

Twelve MPC’s.

Sarah

Breeders?

Sgt. Tanner

Yes. They signed the Multiple Partner Contract. They will help protect against DNA degradation.

Allen

What about your seat?

Sgt. Tanner

I won’t be going doctor. The MPC applies to woman and men of import. But my three sisters were boarded under the MPC. The woman in my family have always had large hips.

Allen

Would you excuse us please?

Sgt. Tanner

Of course (exits)

Allen

I’m not going without you Sarah.

Sarah

Don’t Allen. I’ve known for a long time that I would have to stay behind. You just found out a few hours ago. You have to go.

Allen

There is no way I’m leaving you Sarah…you’re my seven…

Sarah

Just stop. Don’t try to be my hero Allen. A big rock is going to slam into earth and destroy everything. You have a chance to live. Take it.

Allen

Sarah…

Sarah

Just GO! I normally wouldn’t have given you the time of day, but I thought you were literally the last man on earth. Just go, please.

Sgt. Tanner (rushing onstage)

I’m sorry doctor but we have to go now.  (Allen makes up his mind and follows the sergeant offstage)

Sarah takes a seat and begins to sob. Soon after, the sound of the shuttle is heard taking off. A few beats later Allen enters holding a boom-box (or iPod with speakers) over his head playing ‘In Your Eyes’ a la ‘Say anything’.

Sarah

Allen you shouldn’t…

Allen

Shhh. If I had boarded that shuttle I would have spent the rest of my life in the ‘Grey Area’. Here I can spend the rest of my life in love. You’re my 7A Sarah.

Sarah

Husband. I need you to take off your pants so I can screw you ‘till we die.

Allen

Yes dear.

Sarah

And we can skip foreplay.

Allen

God I love being married.

 They kiss as the lights slowly come up to full washing out the stage in bright white light. ‘In Your Eyes’ plays over the main system then cut to black.

The End (of the world)

Weekly Writing Challenge: Three Ways to go Gonzo

Three Ways to go Gonzo

  1. You’re standing on a busy street corner. A car runs a red light, hitting a cyclist crossing the intersection.

“I little bit of New York dies in me every time I stop at a cross walk. And who the fuck thought it a good idea to have people wait until a flashing white man says its okay to cross? Don Draper sure the fuck wouldn’t have green lit that shit?” The Don Draper bit is new, his material is getting better. I wonder what this guy does for a living. Same story, different people. Its like he’s introducing himself over and over again. Always breaking the ice. Or maybe he’s buttering them up? I better not stare. I really want to hear the Crosswalk bit. It can’t be far off. 

“A couple of Christmases ago, yes! the Crosswalk bit finale, a buddy of mine from the city was visiting and we go out for some drinks, somewhere close, ’cause, you know, he grew up in the city and he doesn’t really drive, and we come up to the cross walk and there’s no cars coming but the don’t walk sign is up so I stop” The New York expat looks for approval,like he’s asking for an “amen” for his acclimation of traffic obedience. As always its given. The expat then says, his “New Yorker” tongue getting thicker, “my buddy looks at me like I just tried to grab his dick or something and says, “what the fuck are doin’?” The expat New Yorker is by this point in the story always full on early Mamet, he continues on in his best ‘American Buffalo’ dialect as he imitates his buddy, “theres no fuckin’ cars in sight and you’re stopping at the fuckin’ corner? Huh? This fuckin’ guy. Hey, get this guy a flannel shirt. He’s one of you now!”  The expat brings it home with his usual closing line, “I was so ashamed I told him not to look at me”. His mark or whatever he is laughed. Not from the belly, but from the top of the throat, like he understood it was meant to be funny and intellectually agreed that it was funny, but not funny enough to commit to a laugh from his belly. Didn’t phase the expat though. He really did make the long light at this corner worth while. 

The transplant who is “really falling in love with this amazing town” confessed to his client or whatever, “There is so little New York left in me I took an entree size chunk of lox and passed by the bagel altogether at brunch. Next thing you know I’ll be bullying people with courtesy like the fucking bank tellers at Wells Fargo.

He’s really tightening up his delivery, I’ve never heard so much of the story at one light before. Good, orange at the other light. Get my peddle up so I can beat the rush of pedestrians. One good crank and I’ll be on my way to another century ride. Annnnd, the white man says I can go. Thanks for that guy from New York. Whats that popping out from his bag? Something to do with what he does. Some kind of form? What’s all the yelling….light was…re…..

jimmie g.