The neon sign's flashin' through the dirty window at 3am, same as any other day. I can't stand turning the lamp on, it's just to god-damn depressing to see this place. I watch the end of my cigarette as the ember flares up and dies back, kind of entrancing really. After a long deep drag, I butt it and listen; traffic static, the random gunshot that kills somebodies ole' lady or their kid, and some drunk is heaving his insides out down the hall. I get up, go to the can to shit. GOD! I hate cooking for a bunch of assholes that talk about nothin' but watchin' titty movies on the weekend. And this is civilization? I'd like to beat 'em to death with a fuckin' wok; stupid worthless bastards. I don't even know why I think about it, just too fuckin' weird. Blink, blink-blink... Sitting on the edge of the bed, I try to match my eye blinks to the rythm of the neon outside; I can see I'm off a bit, trying again. There it is, now it's always dark, blink. I sit there for a while tryin' to feel what black is. A lot like the dreams I don't have I guess.
Ah hell, wha' do I know anyway; just a grad school dropout with no options' left but that fuckin' diner, and here I sit on the edge of a bed a few thousand whores tricked on, Jesus! I know what I expected, the grand illusion; a chair in a humanities department, yeh sure. Not at my age, just a worn out hack suckin' day-old cigarettes in a one-room 4th floor walk up; with a grease pit waitin' for me in the morning. After a fun-filled weekend off. And what did I do? Sat at the beach, got drunk and passed out in the rocks. Man, what is wrong here? I wonder what happened to my dreams and get that same sick feeling I always get. Nothin happened, that's the point.
I rummage around in the night stand for my bottle of scotch, cracking my head on the top of the stand, DAMN. I wander into the can for a glass of water. Jesus, it still stinks in here. I down the water and fill the glass with scotch on my way back to stare at the sign. The drunk quiets down to a series of pathetic moans. "DIE YA' FUCK," I yell in what I think is the proper direction. I got a lot of balls when nobody knows it's me. The moans get louder. Jesus Christ! A couple gunshots, real close; shit, I wonder if the drunk got it? The thought of somebody kickin' the door down and poppin the poor shit really cracks me up, I laugh so hard I start sloppin my scotch on the rug, fuck. I get up and stare out the window, a kid's runnin' across the street, screams from somewhere. I start countin' the seconds, one... two... three... , about 30 mississippi's later I hear the siren. Ah the joys of city life, never a dull moment. That's the only reason I took this room, it's close to the precinct house, and the diner. The crotch of the city, I open the window and take in a good whiff of whatever died, and is rotting in the gutter. Skip it, I close the window and stare out the greasy glass.
It suddenly strikes me how bad this room smells; its' been a couple days since I was here. I must get used to it if I'm here all the time. Sometimes I'd like to get outa this shit hole and live in the country or somethin' but shit, where would I go, back to Nebraska for Christsake. Fuckin' boring. I couldn't wait to leave when I was a kid, and the few times I went back; before Pop died; I felt just as out of place as ever. I never helped on the farm anyway, and Pop didn't own the land so I guess it don't mean shit. I down the rest of the scotch and light the longest butt in the ashtray; gotta remember to pick up some papers at the drug store in the morning; otherwise, I'm outa smokes till Tuesday.
I sit back on the bed, adjust my balls, and cross my legs. Blink, blink-blink... The street's gone quiet again, more or less. Just the traffic rattlin' by. Relax... suck in the smoke, blow it out. Blink, blink... I feel the butt burnin between my fingers and stuff it back in the ashtray. The drawer of the night stand slides open too easily and I pull out the gun. The light from the neon glints from the surface, bathing my eyes clear to the back of my skull with that same warm red glow. My heart always pounds a little faster when I get it out; I sit there with it in my lap until I calm down again. I pull the hammer back a bit and spin the cylinder; listening to it click like a roulette wheel. Holding it against my temple I pull the trigger... 'bang' I whisper, and drop it on the floor. I drop my head to one side and imagine myself dead. Fuckin' metaphysical bullshit anyway. Blink, blink-blink... I sit that way for a long time, but the concept doesn't really fit so I get up to take a leak crackin' my toe on the gun. See... it's never loaded since I might actually do it one day if it were.
On the way back from the can I chuck it in the drawer without looking; layin' back down, I let the flashing light put me to sleep again, same as any other day. Blink, blink-blink...
© 1990-2001 A Hominid G