so here's your future
A few nights back, I was at the laundromat. I got a ride there and the only other person there was a short thin-ish man with white hair. He looked young, though, maybe a few years older than me. I set to my task of washing my clothes because that's what one does when in a laundromat, but before I'd finished adding the detergent, the man (we'll call him Skip) started talking.
I guess he was speaking to me because I was the only other person there, but he spoke as if we'd already been engaged in conversation for a good ten minutes.
"Yeah, this one time I was driving this Camaro down..." He said quickly. His voice went in and out of a mumble so I could only pick up certain things here and there. The gist of it was, at least for this first story, he'd been speeding and was able to talk his way out of the ticket by relating to the officer that he was pretty fucked up and only kept driving only because he didn't realize the cop was behind him.
He told other stories too, one of which involved smoking crank in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, but all of them involved the cops or drugs or being in lock up or both. And he just kept going. Like we were the best of friends.
I stood across the row of washing machines from him as he spoke. I was interested, but also wondered where this was leading. Would I end up stabbed? Would he ask me for money? Would he try to take my clothes from the drier when my back was turned? Nope. He just wanted to talk. Not to me, I don't think, but I was there and that was good enough. I got his life story in about 24 minutes, at least from when he started getting in trouble with the law until now, clean and sober, and living, as far as I could tell, in a house that used to be abandoned. He told me how he learned how to play piano in the joint using a piece of cardboard with a keyboard drawn on it. He told me a lot of other stuff too, but it was all blurred together because he was a mumbler. At the end of the one-sided conversation, he gathered up his clothes and asked me, "So what do you do?" I told him and he asked if he'd seen any of my stuff. I told him that I mostly work for our national newstand magazine now, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually is. He hopped on his bike and paused before he left. He said goodbye, repeated my name and said "I get the feeling I'll be seeing you in the paper real soon." Which totally creeped me the fuck out.
But wouldn't you know? I had the cover story the very next week. And it wasn't even because I was brutally stabbed and left for dead.
I guess he was speaking to me because I was the only other person there, but he spoke as if we'd already been engaged in conversation for a good ten minutes.
"Yeah, this one time I was driving this Camaro down..." He said quickly. His voice went in and out of a mumble so I could only pick up certain things here and there. The gist of it was, at least for this first story, he'd been speeding and was able to talk his way out of the ticket by relating to the officer that he was pretty fucked up and only kept driving only because he didn't realize the cop was behind him.
He told other stories too, one of which involved smoking crank in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, but all of them involved the cops or drugs or being in lock up or both. And he just kept going. Like we were the best of friends.
I stood across the row of washing machines from him as he spoke. I was interested, but also wondered where this was leading. Would I end up stabbed? Would he ask me for money? Would he try to take my clothes from the drier when my back was turned? Nope. He just wanted to talk. Not to me, I don't think, but I was there and that was good enough. I got his life story in about 24 minutes, at least from when he started getting in trouble with the law until now, clean and sober, and living, as far as I could tell, in a house that used to be abandoned. He told me how he learned how to play piano in the joint using a piece of cardboard with a keyboard drawn on it. He told me a lot of other stuff too, but it was all blurred together because he was a mumbler. At the end of the one-sided conversation, he gathered up his clothes and asked me, "So what do you do?" I told him and he asked if he'd seen any of my stuff. I told him that I mostly work for our national newstand magazine now, which sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually is. He hopped on his bike and paused before he left. He said goodbye, repeated my name and said "I get the feeling I'll be seeing you in the paper real soon." Which totally creeped me the fuck out.
But wouldn't you know? I had the cover story the very next week. And it wasn't even because I was brutally stabbed and left for dead.
2 comments:
Yay not being brutally stabbed and left for dead!
What if he were a modern day Howard Hughes mixed with Citizen Kane and actually got you in the paper?! Did I just blow your mind? I think I did.
i'd comment back but my mind has been BLOWN!!!!!1111
trippy shit dude.
Post a Comment