jack_babalon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jack_babalon) wrote2007-01-22 10:21 am
jack_babalon) wrote2007-01-22 10:21 am
Entry tags:
96 hours a day
Thursday: My driving instructor looks like a heavy set Ving Rhames. I catch him there in the modest white Datsun with the 'DRIVING SCHOOL' emblazoned across a sandwich board on the roof. He's got his shades resting on a shaved head that's sticking out of a fur lined hood, he's talking calmly on a cell phone, a massive arm resting out the passenger window. He catches me from the corner of his eye, hangs up and gives me the once over.
"You Robert?" his baritone is seasoned out of state. Up North or out West.
"Yeah."
"I'm Walter" he flashes me this fifty dollar bill of a smile, "I'm here to teach you how to drive."
Friday: Five dollars goes far on a Friday night in Atlanta.
10 o'clock. The Princess rings me up. She's restless. She's got some money to burn. She wants to go out out dancing with her man. There's a show down at the Star Bar. The line up: The Cogburns, The Luchagores and Lust. In that order. It's right down the block from me. She wants to know if i'm in or if i'm out?
"I'm in, Princess."
"Cool. We'll be there to pick you up in twenty minutes."
A quick shower, a shave, a splash of 'Smell Good' behind the ears, a lysterine soak, a fresh pair of drawers and a clean t-shirt. That's me all good to go! I mix a strong drink, put on Nothing Shocking, crank it up and light up a waiting around smoke.
Saturday: The Magpie converts alcohol to energy something fierce! One drink in and he's pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. He talks to me in quick bursts of ideas that get timed and truncated by a non-stop series of cell phone calls he's receiving. One minute it's a stream of conscious monolouge the next it's a hushed converstaion with the cellphone. I turn up the stereo. John Hodgman waxes on Hobos then it's 'Run.Run.Run' by The Velvet Underground. I got the changer on random tonight. It helps me think sometimes. I check on the Magpie who's still on the phone, his steady march across the kitchen floor has trickled down into a absent minded pacing.
Then he hangs up, speeds back up, spins around and HEY WATCH OUT NOW!
"C'mon" he declares with this big goblin grin slapped on his face "Let's get out of here and grab a drink!"
"Where?" I ask more curious than cautious. It's almost midnight but i've only been up for less than an hour. I got a little energy to burn myself.
"The Yacht Club. There's a friend of mine in town and..." his cell phone rings. He answers it quick draw style off the hip, he spins around, slows down and starts pacing the floor again.
Sunday: It's been coming down steady since I woke up. I stand under the skylight watching the rain drops flatten against the window. I feel like i'm underwater watching the ripples of a passing storm above me. I'm listening to a Tibetan Buddhist Funeray Chant on WREK's 'Weekend Cornocupia'. Sandalwood incense drifts from my room and snakes into the kitchen-dining room. The vibrational residue of the LBR has left me with a detached sense of calm. The names of the angels seem to still cling to the echo of the hum in the air.
The chanting of the monks is interupted by spikes of static off the radio. An electric hiss rises up. Floods over the music of the prayer, drowns it out completely until all you can hear is this incessant crackling. It remains like that for a minute then a single drum beat will reverbetate over the din. Then another. The hiss segues slowly out of the noise, ebbing back into the rising tide of a monosylabbic chant.
I absorb it quietly, this waxing and waning between song and static.
As above me the rain taps on the skylight indifferently.
"You Robert?" his baritone is seasoned out of state. Up North or out West.
"Yeah."
"I'm Walter" he flashes me this fifty dollar bill of a smile, "I'm here to teach you how to drive."
Friday: Five dollars goes far on a Friday night in Atlanta.
10 o'clock. The Princess rings me up. She's restless. She's got some money to burn. She wants to go out out dancing with her man. There's a show down at the Star Bar. The line up: The Cogburns, The Luchagores and Lust. In that order. It's right down the block from me. She wants to know if i'm in or if i'm out?
"I'm in, Princess."
"Cool. We'll be there to pick you up in twenty minutes."
A quick shower, a shave, a splash of 'Smell Good' behind the ears, a lysterine soak, a fresh pair of drawers and a clean t-shirt. That's me all good to go! I mix a strong drink, put on Nothing Shocking, crank it up and light up a waiting around smoke.
Saturday: The Magpie converts alcohol to energy something fierce! One drink in and he's pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. He talks to me in quick bursts of ideas that get timed and truncated by a non-stop series of cell phone calls he's receiving. One minute it's a stream of conscious monolouge the next it's a hushed converstaion with the cellphone. I turn up the stereo. John Hodgman waxes on Hobos then it's 'Run.Run.Run' by The Velvet Underground. I got the changer on random tonight. It helps me think sometimes. I check on the Magpie who's still on the phone, his steady march across the kitchen floor has trickled down into a absent minded pacing.
Then he hangs up, speeds back up, spins around and HEY WATCH OUT NOW!
"C'mon" he declares with this big goblin grin slapped on his face "Let's get out of here and grab a drink!"
"Where?" I ask more curious than cautious. It's almost midnight but i've only been up for less than an hour. I got a little energy to burn myself.
"The Yacht Club. There's a friend of mine in town and..." his cell phone rings. He answers it quick draw style off the hip, he spins around, slows down and starts pacing the floor again.
Sunday: It's been coming down steady since I woke up. I stand under the skylight watching the rain drops flatten against the window. I feel like i'm underwater watching the ripples of a passing storm above me. I'm listening to a Tibetan Buddhist Funeray Chant on WREK's 'Weekend Cornocupia'. Sandalwood incense drifts from my room and snakes into the kitchen-dining room. The vibrational residue of the LBR has left me with a detached sense of calm. The names of the angels seem to still cling to the echo of the hum in the air.
The chanting of the monks is interupted by spikes of static off the radio. An electric hiss rises up. Floods over the music of the prayer, drowns it out completely until all you can hear is this incessant crackling. It remains like that for a minute then a single drum beat will reverbetate over the din. Then another. The hiss segues slowly out of the noise, ebbing back into the rising tide of a monosylabbic chant.
I absorb it quietly, this waxing and waning between song and static.
As above me the rain taps on the skylight indifferently.
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How were the Luchagores, by the way?
~rl
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Makes sense -- she's a former pro-wrestler. We saw her at Late Night Creepy a while back.
~rl
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