Cement Trimming: A Short Story

1 Dec

I just wrote this in a spur of the moment.  So, it hasn’t been edited.  No one’s read it yet and I figured I’d just post it on here to allow some other stuff on the blog to fester.  This is all true and very cynical. 

            I’m the type of person that always looks like they’re trying to get somewhere; hunched back with briskly flowing legs instead of a slight arch in a straight back moving at a jaunt.  People pass and I wish that they could know me in some sort of self-satisfying way.  Would I take the opportunity to know them?  No, not worth it.

            I walk past another person and find myself believing that motion is just up to the beholder of how important their time is.  I move through the streets like vomit coming out of the mouth of a newborn baby.  Looking down at the ground I see how the leaves have decayed onto the sidewalk leaving an imprint of dead life.  I’ll most likely end up a summarized piece of cement excavated to investigate the size of my shoe and the fine detail of the soles; no thought behind the wearer – just the worn. 

            Glancing back, my senses seem to me overwhelmingly acute.  Or, at least, my sight and hearing are just watching my back while my smell spends time preoccupied with taking notes on how the queenly castrated cold causes water to freeze – defrost – freeze – until your nose spills of fluids akin to an oil tanker leaking.  I try not to stare when I look behind me because then the driver might think that I’m a social delinquent.  I care about what the person in the car thinks.  I glimpse to the side where a clean wall of stone lies with moss treading up the hills like Alexander the Great and his troops marching to some summit.  My shadow falls across the conqueror as I walk forward and the car passes from behind.  The shadow begins long as the car is further behind me and decreases in size as the vehicle narrows the gap.  Vertigo.  I move but it doesn’t seem as if my shadow accomplishes anything except – maybe – when it vanishes away.

            I close in on the elementary school with the group of adults practicing christmas carols in the auditorium cafeteria hybrid.  The school systems don’t actually go through the whole process of separating the two at the elementary level because they figure that the parents are already tolerating a rehashed play for toddlers where they fake their pride.  So ,they can also be uncomfortable sitting on plastic chairs leaving skid marks atop tile.  Earlier, I noticed the janitor walking gloomily through his halls.  My gay Aunt used to be a janitor.  She loved the retarded kids.

            “…and we’re lookin’ at each other and her head comes up right next to mine.  I’m totally staring at her right in the face like it’s a joke or something but then she fuckin’ headbutts me.”

            A dog snarls.

            “You’d think that bitch would know to back away when my veins are flowin’ with Jack, but no, she done and comes up and headbutts me again!  Fuck!  It’s like…”

            Late thirty year olds sitting out on their porch listening to their outdated early 90s music pretending that they belonged to something bigger than themselves as they wear their middle-income work clothes and drink beer in the freezing cold.  A cedar tree grows in their front yard and it sways lightly in irony.

            My hands are tightly shoved in my pockets of my antique store security jacket as I contemplate the purpose of stories: imagining, I am great at something I have never really tried before.  I am rather selfish.  Striding in final defiance across the last street to my apartment where I can feel like I’m better than everyone else and live inside my head and through other stories: lonely. 

            At last, I slow down.  The clouds begin to trickle the perspiration of the earth.  It’s as if my leaving of the outside world is untimely, and it will miss me.  My right hand tremors like the coming of a storm before the key hole where a microscope can see every scratch that has been caused by simply trying to enter peacefully into a sequestered space.  I lurch forward.

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