Friday, February 19, 2010

Screaming Monkeys.

Shuffling intoxicated and fully loaded past forgotten friends at dark crosswalks as the traffic screams bye and city buses shnuff and groan. Gabriel and I stop at the Liquor Barn for a 30 case of Schlitz. The night was warm and hazy dark. I had his duffel bag strapped across my shoulder from a previous stop at the seediest of downtown dive hotels - The Merlot, thank you - and was helping my Native American friend into his new digs across the street from my humble flat.
"So." He slurs as we parous the tight isles; picking out sweet cakes for tomorrows breakfast with instant coffee. "You gonna help me Saturday."
"I said I would." I grinned with the strap digging into my shoulder.
As we made the few blocks - he carrying the beer case and stinking blankets smelling of monkey feces and I the his bag - stumbling back to our street of rustic red bricked buildings - we discussed the matter of how a friend had blessed him with a whole bedroom set this coming Saturday.
I, on the other hand, my mind was churning on more sordid adventures - on how I would while my time here through the summer in El Paso and to finish these two books I had in mind - Hobosexual and Fried Chittlin's - and then off to New Orleans to squander and explore to finally end up on the isle of Puerto Rico. And so it goes...that I will use as fodder for more fresh writing materiel. And why not, the life of stability and ain't me, Dear Reader, you know that as well as I do. So, why bother even discussing it?

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