GO TO – Part One

I woke up on the floor.  The floor I paced and paced on last night  A bed was nearby.  For some stupid reason I reached out to touch top blanket.  A woman sleeping on my head for once.  I congratulated myself.  My pistol lay nearby and the TV was blaring a couple of yentas fromNew York–  their men, their children, their beautiful homes and grass cutter,  Their loathsome mothers.  I listened for a while, curious about their lives, their experience of consciousness.  Perhaps they should devote their lives to the works of Immanuel Kant.  They would leave television to bury themselves thoroughly into the rich mud of Transcendentals. Better keep my eye on those two.  Watching them stirred me to assess my money supply.  My pocket is stuffed with something; I pull out paper: receipts and…. By Jove there is money  Money!!  I can eat, pay my rent, maybe put a gallon of gas into my “police” car.

How much?  $500.00.

I cut the enthusiasm by half.  No need to wake the neighbors.  Which brings up the question: what neighbors? Sitting up hanging from the side of the bed I look around the room.  Obviously a motel rooms – Day’sInn, Quality, Better Than A Garbage Dump.  Free Meth Making Equipment And Wifi.  Bondage classes every morning at 10.  All right, I’ll stop.

I roll over on my knees and slowly rose to my feet.  Directly in front of me were a chest of drawers and a large mirror.  The room was dark: the blackout curtains were drawn.  I had on my suit pants and white shirt.  My tie may be wound tightly around a woman’s throat.  Fuck, I don’t know.  A man’s throat perhaps?  Nah, I don’t like to fight men.  At my age?  I rather shoot men with Pop, my deceitful little Glock pistol; something I’ve been doing a lot lately.

The dresser mirror faces me.  Imprisoned inside the glass, in the spilled sunlight through the curtains, glows my grotesque face in black and white.  The effect did not sicken me by any means.  I’ve seen worse faces on people I dug out of the ground.  Now come the questions: why do I have blood on my shirt collar, a bloody nose, bruises covering my face?  Was I pistol whipped..  Having seen my wounds the level of my pain increased.  I fell back on the bed.  My neck and back throbbed.  See why I don’t like to fight men?

I woke up on the floor.  The floor I paced and paced on last night  A bed was nearby.  For some stupid reason I reached out to touch top blanket.  A woman sleeping on my head for once.  I congratulated myself.  My pistol lay nearby and the TV was blaring a couple of yentas fromNew York–  their men, their children, their beautiful homes and grass cutter,  Their loathsome mothers.  I listened for a while, curious about their lives, their experience of consciousness.  Perhaps they should devote their lives to the works of Immanuel Kant.  They would leave television to bury themselves thoroughly into the rich mud of Transcendentals. Better keep my eye on those two.  Watching them stirred me to assess my money supply.  My pocket is stuffed with something; I pull out paper: receipts and…. By Jove there is money  Money!!  I can eat, pay my rent, maybe put a gallon of gas into my “police” car.

How much?  $500.00.

I cut the enthusiasm by half.  No need to wake the neighbors.  Which brings up the question: what neighbors? Sitting up hanging from the side of the bed I look around the room.  Obviously a motel rooms – Day’sInn, Quality, Better Than A Garbage Dump.  Free Meth Making Equipment And Wifi.  Bondage classes every morning at 10.  All right, I’ll stop.

I roll over on my knees and slowly rose to my feet.  Directly in front of me were a chest of drawers and a large mirror.  The room was dark: the blackout curtains were drawn.  I had on my suit pants and white shirt.  My tie may be wound tightly around a woman’s throat.  Fuck, I don’t know.  A man’s throat perhaps?  Nah, I don’t like to fight men.  At my age?  I rather shoot men with Pop, my deceitful little Glock pistol; something I’ve been doing a lot lately.

The dresser mirror faces me.  Imprisoned inside the glass, in the spilled sunlight through the curtains, glows my grotesque face in black and white.  The effect did not sicken me by any means.  I’ve seen worse faces on people I dug out of the ground.  Now come the questions: why do I have blood on my shirt collar, a bloody nose, bruises covering my face?  Was I pistol whipped..  Having seen my wounds the level of my pain increased.  I fell back on the bed.  My neck and back throbbed.  See why I don’t like to fight men?

End of Part One

 

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