….spilled the bowl of oats and soy milk all over the kitchen table, from where it then dribbled on the floor, puddling at the feet of the not sufficiently contrite Jew.
“Sorry,” muttered the Ensign.
‘Fuck you and your oats, ” said the Cmmdr, as he went for the paper towels.
“I’ll get it – don’t use paper towels!” cried the Ensign.
“It’s my fucking house, I’ll clean it with anything I want, I’ll smoke right here if I want, I’ll make sure everything is at right angles IF I WANT BECAUSE IT’S MY HOUSE!”
The Ensign was shocked by this outburst from the glutinous little thesp. There was something else going on, he thought. This anger came from a deeper source. Was it that his garage, which normally doubled as a music and painting studio, had been transformed into an infested, masturbatory, litter-strewn, filthy SRO for some cheap bitter unemployed Jew to dream his hopeless dreams in? Was the rage directed at the Ensign’s ceaseless, caustic carping, the endless admonishment, the non-stop opinion making? Could the Cmmdr just resent the Ensign’s ubiquitous facial hair?
“Can I help?”
“No,” said the Cmmdr, wheezing on his knees as he cleaned up the horse food from the floor.
The Ensign looked out the kitchen window at the dreary sky. What the fuck has happened to me, he thought. Broke and homeless in a meretricious nightmare of a city. Relying on the few friends he had for a place to park his banjo while he shopped his wares – watch me simulate a lawyer! – to the vultures who sat behind the studio gates, rich, disinterested, young.
(o be con’t)
3 comments:
I am howling. Crying. Laughing. Jesus. I can't stop.
I am HOWLING. HOWLLING.
OH MY GOD LAUGHING LAUGHING LAUGHING
On second viewing I realize how angry the Cmmdr was for The Ensign's yearly LONG visits. He should have rented a place and stayed away. He misjudged their friendship. He overstayed his welcome. He is sorry.
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