Goddamn fog. Wally sat placidly at a table, surveying what little he could see out the plate glass window, his mood dour as the weather, the air inside the restaurant heavy as the pea soup outside. Arms folded at his chest, legs crossed, he calmly brought the Marlboro to his lips. Sweet, heavy, nicotine-laden smoke entered his lungs as he watched the crimson tip flare and rush toward his fingers. Wally held his breath to allow the poison quicker entry into his bloodstream and exhaled slowly as he crushed the now-tiny remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He’d quit someday. Goddamn fog.
It was not unusual for Wally to feel pissy. In fact, lately his moods were becoming more and more somber and he couldn't pinpoint the reasons why. No catastrophic events had occurred, but an all-encompassing sense of ennui had overtaken him, and apparently nothing could be done.
Wally drained his fourth (fifth?) cup of bad Denny's coffee and realized he had absolutely no idea what he wanted or expected from life, not a single clue. He knew only what he didn't want. Neither did he particularly care what happened to the world. No identifiable desire to wish anyone harm sullied his heart, but the void was filled with an ambivalence born of non-achievement, or so he supposed. The clock ticked inside his head, reminding him that he was no longer the energetic youth who could change destiny merely by wishing it so, then making it happen. That unidentifiable spark was gone, and it was beginning to look like the departure might be permanent.
Where had it gone, this nebulous flicker? It was assuredly there when he chased derricks for Halliburton. The oilpatch was full of Wallys, indefinable young men seduced by the lure of adventure and big paychecks, men who possessed brawn and brains enough to walk the razor's edge between safety and fool-hardiness. Most of the rig hands in the Overthrust Belt were willing to fuck, fight, or go for their gun, and only afterward worry about the consequences. A toolpusher on a Cardinal rig sitting somewhere between Baroil and Rock Springs once told him there was virtually no difference between life and death, except life was more expensive. Wally would never forget this was the same man shot to death in the card room of the Glory Hole Bar in Casper, when he had accused the wrong man of taking some of his chips... so much for high finance.
Was it all just one big orgasmic thrust that had passed, just as he was learning how to really negotiate it? Isn't that the way of things, though? Wally wondered how other folks just stayed at a job for thirty or forty years. Had it been just a quick roll in the hay for them, too?
The answer would have to wait. Wally glanced up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and realized that time had gotten away from him. Quickly, he gathered his newspaper, piled four quarters neatly on top of the check, and walked out of the coffee shop. It was a four-minute walk to the mission, and if he didn't hurry, he'd miss the opening scene of Columbo.
Bob Church ©
It was not unusual for Wally to feel pissy. In fact, lately his moods were becoming more and more somber and he couldn't pinpoint the reasons why. No catastrophic events had occurred, but an all-encompassing sense of ennui had overtaken him, and apparently nothing could be done.
Wally drained his fourth (fifth?) cup of bad Denny's coffee and realized he had absolutely no idea what he wanted or expected from life, not a single clue. He knew only what he didn't want. Neither did he particularly care what happened to the world. No identifiable desire to wish anyone harm sullied his heart, but the void was filled with an ambivalence born of non-achievement, or so he supposed. The clock ticked inside his head, reminding him that he was no longer the energetic youth who could change destiny merely by wishing it so, then making it happen. That unidentifiable spark was gone, and it was beginning to look like the departure might be permanent.
Where had it gone, this nebulous flicker? It was assuredly there when he chased derricks for Halliburton. The oilpatch was full of Wallys, indefinable young men seduced by the lure of adventure and big paychecks, men who possessed brawn and brains enough to walk the razor's edge between safety and fool-hardiness. Most of the rig hands in the Overthrust Belt were willing to fuck, fight, or go for their gun, and only afterward worry about the consequences. A toolpusher on a Cardinal rig sitting somewhere between Baroil and Rock Springs once told him there was virtually no difference between life and death, except life was more expensive. Wally would never forget this was the same man shot to death in the card room of the Glory Hole Bar in Casper, when he had accused the wrong man of taking some of his chips... so much for high finance.
Was it all just one big orgasmic thrust that had passed, just as he was learning how to really negotiate it? Isn't that the way of things, though? Wally wondered how other folks just stayed at a job for thirty or forty years. Had it been just a quick roll in the hay for them, too?
The answer would have to wait. Wally glanced up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and realized that time had gotten away from him. Quickly, he gathered his newspaper, piled four quarters neatly on top of the check, and walked out of the coffee shop. It was a four-minute walk to the mission, and if he didn't hurry, he'd miss the opening scene of Columbo.
Bob Church ©
3 comments:
Another good one! You should assemble all these stories about the homeless into a composite work...
You have done it again.
I look in your writing
to see if I can find me....
safe again, .....
this time.
I fear the day when missing
a tv show drives my day.
Outstanding work here.
kay lee
Hiya, keeds...
I wouldn't waste too much time, were I you, looking for one's self in my work. Although I think my characters are developed from some of the more memorable folks I've met/known, few of them are drawn from close friends, for just the reasons you might suspect.
Jo, I've already made such a compilation and I call it Reluctant Roads. I'm currently looking for a publisher... any ideas? I tried a couple, but neither one was interested in short story anthologies. I guess they're hard to sell unless they're the work of already-proven writers. I'll keep trying... and thanks for the idea!
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