Billy Joel

It’s just like that song, “There’s something going on here and you don’t know what it is,” except I couldn’t be fucked to find out. I was coming down and it was all I could do to concentrate so that I didn’t choke on the wad of melted cheese in my French Onion Soup.

I went outside for a smoke and ended up walking a couple of blocks. On ninth avenue the queens scratched their crotches as white paneled, refrigerated meat trucks backed slowly into garages lit insanely bright with fluorescent light. Broad shouldered men in long white jackets stood off to the side, smoking and sweating as they waited to get splattered with blood. Billy Joel played on a transistor radio. Everything seemed obvious and scripted. Objects had a movie glow. Maybe it’s because so many movies had been filmed there. Undersides were revealed. Even the graffiti on the sides of buildings was illuminated.

There was a relentless ache in my gut and ancient indie rock melodies in my head. I stepped gingerly over puddles filled with the rainbow swirls of animal and car grease. I passed the chattering lines waiting to get into clubs and the next thing I knew I was on 13th street, wondering how I got so far from Fleurant. I wondered why I never knew where the fuck I was going.

I was always zoning out on something. Why this need to keep my mind racing? I twisted my hands and stared up at the sky.

I’ve forgotten what’s good in people.

I need a new partner.

A streetlight sputtered to life a few feet away, revealing a punk girl sitting beneath it Indian style, her head slumped and her shoulders hunched. Half-sleeping, I thought, having done it myself. There was a plastic cup in front of her feet. I walked over and stuck a couple of bills in it. She didn’t look up, although I saw the flicker of her eyes blinking. She stared intently at the sidewalk. It occurred to me that maybe she was crying.

She had a cardboard sign beside her. Along with some other stuff it said, I need $35 to get a place to stay for the night, please help me get off the street. I looked back at the cup. It was already late and so far I was the only one to put anything in it. Thirty-five dollars wasn’t that much money, but my feet were already moving.

I knew what should happen, but it wasn’t going to be me.


kid god