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dirigo The waiting was the bad part. He’d sit there with a cigarette hanging aimlessly between his lips and he’d never notice when it went out. It rained a lot that summer. It rained too much. He would try lighting up in the shelter of a doorway and a gust of wind would land a fat raindrop right on the end of the cigarette, effectively ending any dreams of filling his lungs with beautiful nicotine imbued smoke.
But it wasn’t even the rain. It was the waiting. It tired him out every time, so that by the time Spot actually showed up he would be grumpy. Then they would fight and Spot would go off again, off to drink himself into a stupor, or get into a fight, or sit on the docks staring into the water as though he would find some great universal truth in the murky, disgusting water of the Hudson. Spot had always looked for his answers in the city. He was like an abused lover, always coming back to the abuser. He never got any answers, of course. There was the time he’d gotten drunk and rode the bus around until two o’clock in the morning, until the driver had tried to kick him off and Spot had got himself nearly beat to death by the cop who answered the driver’s calls for help.
Race didn’t know what it was, but the waiting was brutal. Spot didn’t have dreams anymore. He would lie in bed like one of the dead, eyes not moving under his lids. The radiator would ping and he’d come awake with a strangled cry, hands grasping for an M1 that wasn’t there. Race didn’t know what it was. It was brutal.
There were certain things about the war that he liked. It was hard, but he was good at it. He could put a bullet between a man’s eyes and he would sleep like a log that night. He could hear others tossing and turning sometimes. He wouldn’t move. Like a log, like a log.
It was loud. He would watch the 88’s land with splintering force and he’d feel the smash vibrate up through his bones like an orgasm. He laughed during barrages. Race called him crazy. Spot called it coping.
When it was quiet, though, he would think. Coming back home, coming back to Brooklyn, it was quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was quiet and he would lie awake on the couch with the fuzz of the radio on because he’d stayed up past the last program and he would think about the eyes of the man he’d shot in the head.
But it wasn’t even the rain. It was the waiting. It tired him out every time, so that by the time Spot actually showed up he would be grumpy. Then they would fight and Spot would go off again, off to drink himself into a stupor, or get into a fight, or sit on the docks staring into the water as though he would find some great universal truth in the murky, disgusting water of the Hudson. Spot had always looked for his answers in the city. He was like an abused lover, always coming back to the abuser. He never got any answers, of course. There was the time he’d gotten drunk and rode the bus around until two o’clock in the morning, until the driver had tried to kick him off and Spot had got himself nearly beat to death by the cop who answered the driver’s calls for help.
Race didn’t know what it was, but the waiting was brutal. Spot didn’t have dreams anymore. He would lie in bed like one of the dead, eyes not moving under his lids. The radiator would ping and he’d come awake with a strangled cry, hands grasping for an M1 that wasn’t there. Race didn’t know what it was. It was brutal.
There were certain things about the war that he liked. It was hard, but he was good at it. He could put a bullet between a man’s eyes and he would sleep like a log that night. He could hear others tossing and turning sometimes. He wouldn’t move. Like a log, like a log.
It was loud. He would watch the 88’s land with splintering force and he’d feel the smash vibrate up through his bones like an orgasm. He laughed during barrages. Race called him crazy. Spot called it coping.
When it was quiet, though, he would think. Coming back home, coming back to Brooklyn, it was quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was quiet and he would lie awake on the couch with the fuzz of the radio on because he’d stayed up past the last program and he would think about the eyes of the man he’d shot in the head.
