Kill The Messenger

Mike Murder is gone.

He is totally gone now. He packed his bags and wished me goodbye. He has a One O'clock bus to South Carolina to live with his mother. He packs slowly, deliberately, silently. I can't talk to him. I am indeed hurting inside. I remember when we first met, when we would talk for hours. When he told me how many times he tried to kill himself simply because he had nothing else to live for. I said that I understood, although I didn't understand shit. I wanted to say something encouraging, something life affirming, but I don't have those treasures to give out.

And I had no goodbyes for him. I just wanted to sleep, to make him go away, to go on and live without him. Another friend gone from the Box. Like I said, I will be there, surrounded by foreign, unfamiliar and angry faces in the long run as everyone passes through, and I'm still there. I knew this would happen. I was aware of this long beforehand. I am a fortune teller.

I'm writing emails and going long in doing so. Kenny comes into the dorm. "Alright gentlemen, it's time to close up shop." Meaning it's time to close down our laptops and climb into bed. It's after Midnight, and it's meaningless to me. I wake up at Four in the Morning. It's still dark out and I can barely see. I stash my MP3 player under my pillow and rise to procure a towel, washcloth and soap. I go and stand in the shower for fifteen minutes. I know I know, I don't do it often enough, but when I do, I languish in the shower. In the navy they call them Hollywood showers. I can lather up, rinse, lather up again, and rinse again. I come out squeaky clean, but since I have not done laundry in weeks, I no longer have underwear. So I go commando.

It doesnt' bother me much to have my tools banging around in my pants. I really kind of prefer it to the constricting briefs that I wear. I sweat less, it feels more airy, I can...wait, what am I getting into here? A discussion of swinging balls as compared to those in a cotton harness? Excuse me from drifting there. I climb out and return to bed, fully dressed and stretch out. It's hard to get back to sleep because of the hot shower, it wakes you up. That and a cup of coffee and you're good to go and face your day.

But there would be no facing the day just yet. I needed more sleep. I finally drift off by Five O'Clock, only to re-awaken at Six. I lay in the bed, not able to move. I want to stay there, but there is a distant beckoning. I roll over and off the cot to land on the floor and on my hands and tip toes. I crank out, and I do mean CRANK OUT, twenty pushups and then hop on my bed for twenty sit ups. When done, I pass back out, exhausted. How could I have done some many of those things when I was young?

I am awake now, although my body says otherwise. My mind will not let me sleep but would rather drag me through the day, stealing a little sleep here and there. Probably in the library. A close friend has suggested that I go to MOMA on fridays because admission is free from four to eight. I love art, and the thought of going there is tempting. It's just that I'm lazy. If I get to the library I might get too content to sit and do nothing but write. But a little culture is always good, and a good jaunt to see some actual Rembrants, Bougereaus, Picassos, Dalis, Van Goughs, is just a little too much to pass up on. Especially for free.

So maybe that's in my future for today. I cannot tell from here. Right now I am sitting in the neigh- borhood Starbucks. It's like an early morning routine for me. Rise at six, Starbucks at Seven, back to the Box by eight, the Library by Ten, therapists by Two Thirty, Three Thirty, to the Madison Starbucks by Six, back to the box by Nine Forty Five, bed by Midnight. Repeat if I wake up the next morning.

I absolutely adore watching the rush hour folks march in and out, getting on an absurdly long line FOR EXPENSIVE COFFEE!! Not that I'm any different, but I don't just walk in and out for my two dollar coffee. I sit, use their electricity and their WIFI for hours and gape. What could be more fun for a man that has nothing to do but write down his observations? I watch the stunning women walk in and out. Men are always watching women, whether they are married or not. Women are the number one spectator sport. Which is why the swimsuit edition is on the cover of Sports Illustrated once every year. And why it's the most sold out copy in the year.

That's just the way it is ladies. Men love watching you. Uhhhh, how childish, women sigh. Not at all. Its the beauty and power of repro- duction. Men alert women that they are on the prowl. A woman knows instinctively when a man is interested in her. It is programmed directly into her DNA. She has five senses in constant overdrive for it, for the gaze, the touch, the sight and sound that means: I want to lock limbs with you. Put as primal as I can put it: I want to fuck you.

There's nothing else to it. It's the thinking that gets in the way. When everything is taken from the primal, the animal attraction, to the more lofty, civilized goals. As if they mean anything of value to men and women. He's worried about how hot she looks to his friends. She's worried about if he's a good provider. They're worried about if it's going to last and what would their parents say, and blah, blah, blah. And all of this other shit that can just be chucked out of a nearby window once touch meets touch and lips meet lips.

We are endlessly made for each other, doomed to grapple naked and make more of us.

And we think that living has anything to do with expensive coffee.

I'll have another cup.

Hobobob