The world is upon me, and fighting
against the inevitable is for woebegoners, so instead I’ll wait for it to hit
me, thank you very much, like the good little boy you might think I am. But
then, that’s the problem isn’t it? Impressions are wrong — first, third,
seventh, no matter. I’m not good. Going against the grain of the world might be
what some are put on God’s greenery for, but I prefer the path of least
resistance. I prefer ignorance to ignominy any day. The problem of course is
that leaves me vulnerable to the vultures, and the vultures take all forms.
They pick at the bones of contention, the flecks of flesh from open wounds of
worry and womb lust, which is like wanderlust but exactly the opposite.
Vultures can look like inoperable tumors, or out of order vending machines, or
pens that run out of ink. Vultures are dictators and janitors, the cash
register guy at the Stop-n-Shop and the woman next door who sometimes forgets
to wear her bra when she takes out the trash. I hate them all because they’re
out to get me anyway. But I would rather not be forewarned because that would
require me to know my enemy, and again I will remind you that my laziness
precludes my desire for self-protection. I was not always this way. The world
was not always this way. I seem to remember a different perception, like dream
state memories of long lost slumbers and a sadness that underlies the hint of
what once was. It explains a lot. But the harder I concentrate on it, the more
it eludes me. So much the better. I must have forgotten for a reason, and
losing my reason makes it right somehow. An eloquent answer to my unspoken
question. Perhaps Solomon knows, although he might not tell me. He is forever
protecting me for my own good, but the greater good might be the more likely
benefactor of his kindness to me. After all, I would not want to unleash me to
an unsuspecting society any more than I would want society’s leash on me. It is
the impasse of the impossible dream. Like clockwork Solomon comes to visit, but
always out of synchronicity for me. He always comes the day after tomorrow, so
I am always looking forward to seeing him. He brings me dime bags and bagels
for my condition. Solomon says, “You fucking faggoty ass freak, no one takes
dime bags anymore” but I know what I smoke. Every experiment has a control and
a hypothetical. Parenthetically, Solomon is my control. I live the
hypothetical. Today Solomon wears a gold watch on a chain in his pocket, and he
sits in the living room. I once tried to explain to him it could just as well
be called the dying room, since we’re not just living but we’re dying all at
the same time, but Solomon wouldn’t have any of it. He says “fucking freak” a
lot, and not much else. It is the silence I value most during his visits, because
the unspoken speaks volumes to me. It is not unlike reading between the lines,
except that I prefer the between to the lines. If I could only have the between
without the lines, I think I might really be content, but you can’t have the
one without the other. You cannot have your bagel and eat it too. My favorite
is onion and garlic toasted with lots of cream cheese. Solomon always forgets
the cream cheese. It’s his passive aggressive way of behavior manipulation. So
far I think it’s working. I haven’t left the house in months now, maybe more
than a year. Maybe more. The Chinese bring me my groceries, and Mr. Dallas
handles the currency and sends me a Christmas card for Hanukah every winter
time. I have spent many days watching the lawn reappear after a slow
submission. So when Solomon stands to leave, it must surprise him when I say
that I want to go with him.
