Tattered Street Cats And Busy Intersections.

I can’t remember the sun coming up that morning.

Who would remember such a brilliance of light, the dawn of day, when crawling along such grim avenues. A marker of the things to come, screaming ambulance, clotted blood and police sirens.

God always lets the sun rise.

She and I went over to chill at a friend’s place, this apartment just outside of the downtown district. It was in the same area I went to N.A meetings with my Mother when I was a kid. Around the corner from the community center and  down the street from China Town… I hated it. It’s one of those areas that’s slightly industrial, this kind of cold plastic feeling to it, lined with Pawn Shops, Asian Cuisine and Money Marts. Smells like exhaust fumes, with a mixture of salt and burning rubber.Tattered street cats darting across busy intersections, and bag ladies picking through trash bins.

Whenever we needed a place to get drunk, pop pills or get high, it was available. The couple that lived there had a room down the hall from mine, at the Y.M.C.A. Remember the girl who slapped me across the face, after having sliced her wrists open? There was so much blood on the hallway tiles that the floor squeaked under my shoes, like it does when you come in from lunch break at school, after a rain storm. Except this was nothing like that, only the same sound, and I’m aware of how screwed up the comparison is. Moving along..

That tiny girl, with the thin bird like frame and inner personality conflict.

Yeah, that’s the one. The one who almost bled herself dry in the bathroom stall that day, the one lucky to be alive. Their Mothers were both lesbians, and it just so happened they were dating each other. That being the case, they left the apartment to the kids, while they were out doing their own thing. I’d get sad just BEING there. I’d get sad being anywhere people lived. Because of just that, they LIVED there. I didn’t live anywhere. Not even in my own body. Everything was either foreign, or I just wasn’t invited. Never being able to sit still, or breathe, even when the moment reached out its hand.

Sitting on the edge of every seat.

Never taking of my jacket.

Maybe I’d even leave my shoes on. An ever exhausting state of extreme restlessness, and to be honest, I still struggle with that to this very day.

I guess Tyler had been hanging around there for a few days, because he was the first person I saw when I came in through the front door. I wasn’t even happy to see him anymore. That mysterious edge I had once seen, whether fabricated by myself or not, had turned into a dull lie. Looking at him was sharpened by a truth, his truth, and once that happens, you can’t go back. He was utterly full of shit and I knew that now. If I had meant anything to him at all, it would be this. I shared my money with him, my drugs with him, and my liquor with him. If I had a hotel room, he was always there to sleep in my bed, and that’s it. That’s all it had ever been, and after one month on the street, I had learned a lot about these things. About men, about life, and about what it’s really like…when it comes to the end.

And when the end is hovering that closely, like a swaying chandelier about to crush your head in, you kind of just…let go.

“We’re broke Tyler.”

The shit show, already swirling around my mind.

“We’re gonna jack someone tonight.”

 

 

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8 thoughts on “Tattered Street Cats And Busy Intersections.

  1. I’ve read through a couple of your posts and you really tell a great story. It’s an excellent read and not a typical blog in a sense of just relaying thoughts; It’s a story that pulls the mask off of the world’s face, showing it’s true colors. Keep writing, and I’ll keep reading. Truly love your blog.

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