6:37am. Young, cholo type tweeker bops into the cafe acting like tweekers do. Standard urban Hip hop gear draped over a stocky, toned frame. He swaggers with that macho walk that heats me pants every time. Fiddles constantly with the various tubes and containers on the condiment table. He uses the mensroom to go smooth himself out. Turns baseball cap backwards before entering. Before lighting up. Before sucking that glass pipe dry. Old queen sashays in with tea-cup chihuahua on a leash. Bangs on the bathroom door because the tweeker is taking too damn long. Fuck, man, let him take his medicine. It's horrible world out there, he needs to prepare. Tweeker bursts out, gives me a wonderful smile with that macho handsome Latino face, "Don't want no problems, chief." He says to the snooty old queen in passing. Tweeker ping pongs around the largely empty cafe picking up bits of paper, straightening chairs, swaying to the jazzy-jazz warbling over the speakers before dashing out into the post dawn nothing of the still sleeping city.
I scribble more notes into my little notebook. I have drafted two or three more chapters to be incorporated into Hobosexual. Much needed and I like what I wrote. Romantic dealings and heartbreak let downs on a homeless level. Yeah, gay hobos need lovin' too.
I order my second large mug of house coffee, check my facebook - boring - check my tumblr - funny - check my e-mail - ghastly. I am biding time. Waiting to make my next move. What that move is at this point is a complete mystery. But, I am sure when revealed it will be both beautiful and strange.
Two hours pass and I write. Think. Contemplate. Young tweeker bursts back into the cafe walks up to my booth and places his bag in the adjoining chair. "You gonna be here a bit?" He asks.
"Yes, for another thirty minutes or so." I croak.
"Can you watch my stuff while I'm in the bathroom" (He pronounces it baffroom).
"Sure." I manage a smile.
Clandestinely, he removes his glass stem pipe from his backpack and enters the mensroom, saying, "I don't trust the people who work here. They're all thieves." He enters the mensroom and locks it before I have time to answer.
The clock on the wall ticks. I write. The sun curves up in the sky. The city slowly wakes.
Been thinking a lot about suicide lately. Weird, huh?
4 comments:
You meet the most fascinating and interesting people. Suicide or suicide ideation?
Thank you. I had to crop the pic of the cafe, because he was in it at the counter.
Suicide? Didn't you read it? The entire event - from being tossed into the back of a van and whisked away to the city's mental clinic, to being interogated by the hostile interns, to being on suicide watch and talking my way out of it with a very demented psychoanalist - it was all posted as it happened on my facebook. Oh...wait...nevermind. No one cared on there, either.
No, I didn't read it. I'll raise your attempt, with 2 and a drug overdose. Lets compare lifes war wounds ;)
One day perhaps we'll sit in a dive bar booth swilling bitter ales and comparing each others foibles like the three characters in JAWS on their boat... :)
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