...is full of energy,playful,
bored,
creative,
kind of crazy.
Randy doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
No smoking in the apartment!
August smokes a lot,
steaming,
heated,
burning red,
easily embarrassed.
Spider wants some kind of revenge,
even though he still loves August.
He feels stupid,
put down;
he said so much to so many people,
he has to save face.
He had to take August back
he had no choice;
he has to get August back.
Take/get.
Across the street from Randy's garage apartment a man sits on his front porch smoking a cigarette,
deep in thought,
perplexed by the images going through his head.
He looks around to see if anyone can see him,
but he doesn't see Randy upstairs,
a chair pulled up to the window,
the futon couch pushed out of the way,
watching,
spying,
looking for signs of life,
investigating the life going on around him as the life inside him fades away.
That man doesn't do much but think and smoke;
he's like August without any energy,
the rundown version,
dreams unrealized,
hopes dried up.
Alone.
Next door a couple fucks in their bedroom,
the front room,
a curtain pulled slightly aside,
another threadbare and illuminated by the orange glow of a flickering candle flame playing off of the bodies,
sweaty skin,
shiny,
legs moving against legs,
nothing more to see.
A loud house next door,
college kids,
noisy,
usually shirtless,
often in nothing but boxers,
occasionally naked through the hallway,
past the doorway,
maybe a quick dip into the kitchen for a glass of water or to toss a beer can into the trashcan.
Heart thumping;
Randy can't take it,
can't help it,
can't get it out of his head,
his withering body stiffening once more,
asking for a candle flame.
Behind him,
across the alley,
the hippie lady,
frumpy,
muumuued,
moocow,
hanging her laundry,
tie-dye and linen,
hemp even;
hair frantic in the wind,
humidity sticking it across her face,
she tangles with it,
laughs with the Elements,
smiles to be alive.
So alive as Randy dies,
sits at the top of his apartment stairs and stares,
spies in the night when there's no one else to spy on.
Loneliness makes you do crazy things.
She's probably nice,
probably annoying.
She seems alone but not lonely,
capable,
content.
She smiles at her cats meowing at the back door,
tails twitching at the sound of the can opener cranking on the top of any can.
Of course she has cats!
She's probably a lesbian.
There's probably a big old Rainbow American flag hanging from the front porch.
She probably drives a sensible car--
or, no, a bicycle.
A bicycle-built-for-two so she can offer someone a ride,
with great big baskets in the front and back full of flowers to give the old widow across the street from her.
Or her groceries from the hippie grocery store.
But she would empty them all out to pick up a stray animal,
a sickly cat,
take it home,
nurse it to health.
Randy sits on his bed and writes notes,
imagines himself a writer again,
comes up with a series of short stories about his neighbors,
but he never finishes them because he's too busy spying on them.
bored,
creative,
kind of crazy.
Randy doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
No smoking in the apartment!
August smokes a lot,
steaming,
heated,
burning red,
easily embarrassed.
Spider wants some kind of revenge,
even though he still loves August.
He feels stupid,
put down;
he said so much to so many people,
he has to save face.
He had to take August back
he had no choice;
he has to get August back.
Take/get.
Across the street from Randy's garage apartment a man sits on his front porch smoking a cigarette,
deep in thought,
perplexed by the images going through his head.
He looks around to see if anyone can see him,
but he doesn't see Randy upstairs,
a chair pulled up to the window,
the futon couch pushed out of the way,
watching,
spying,
looking for signs of life,
investigating the life going on around him as the life inside him fades away.
That man doesn't do much but think and smoke;
he's like August without any energy,
the rundown version,
dreams unrealized,
hopes dried up.
Alone.
Next door a couple fucks in their bedroom,
the front room,
a curtain pulled slightly aside,
another threadbare and illuminated by the orange glow of a flickering candle flame playing off of the bodies,
sweaty skin,
shiny,
legs moving against legs,
nothing more to see.
A loud house next door,
college kids,
noisy,
usually shirtless,
often in nothing but boxers,
occasionally naked through the hallway,
past the doorway,
maybe a quick dip into the kitchen for a glass of water or to toss a beer can into the trashcan.
Heart thumping;
Randy can't take it,
can't help it,
can't get it out of his head,
his withering body stiffening once more,
asking for a candle flame.
Behind him,
across the alley,
the hippie lady,
frumpy,
muumuued,
moocow,
hanging her laundry,
tie-dye and linen,
hemp even;
hair frantic in the wind,
humidity sticking it across her face,
she tangles with it,
laughs with the Elements,
smiles to be alive.
So alive as Randy dies,
sits at the top of his apartment stairs and stares,
spies in the night when there's no one else to spy on.
Loneliness makes you do crazy things.
She's probably nice,
probably annoying.
She seems alone but not lonely,
capable,
content.
She smiles at her cats meowing at the back door,
tails twitching at the sound of the can opener cranking on the top of any can.
Of course she has cats!
She's probably a lesbian.
There's probably a big old Rainbow American flag hanging from the front porch.
She probably drives a sensible car--
or, no, a bicycle.
A bicycle-built-for-two so she can offer someone a ride,
with great big baskets in the front and back full of flowers to give the old widow across the street from her.
Or her groceries from the hippie grocery store.
But she would empty them all out to pick up a stray animal,
a sickly cat,
take it home,
nurse it to health.
Randy sits on his bed and writes notes,
imagines himself a writer again,
comes up with a series of short stories about his neighbors,
but he never finishes them because he's too busy spying on them.
