Pop

Cold sweat and a headache throbbing away inside my skull and keeping in perfect rhythm with the jazz music I’m hearing from that guy’s room next door. I couldn’t hear it nearly as well if I wasn’t pressed against the wall. I can even hear his TV and the suspenseful voice of Robert Stack guiding his audience through another “unsolved mystery”. Must be really, really nice being oblivious to everything. I purse my lips in thought: mum was right, I guess moving in here was a bad idea; but I’m not exactly rich right now or maybe I’d move up town- hell, maybe I’d move out of town! And pop, what would he think now? haven’t talked to him in years, I’m sure he’d have a laugh at his military school drop out son. Then he’d see the lines of coke on my counter, and turn red like he did the very first time I came home drunk and threw up on his expensive Persian floor mat. he’d tell me its all my fault, he’d tell me I’ve gotten out of life exactly what I put into it. he’d call me a damned slob and slap me like the girl he is and wishes he wasn’t, the poor old bastard. But none of that matters, something good had better come soon or its lights out for sure- “listen, buddy, hear me out I don’t have much, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by this point take the drugs, take the stereo there are more cd’s in the drawer and my wallet is in those pants over there by the bed, you see? I’ll even give you my car it’s a red Cavalier, needs a tune up but runs pretty well most of the time. Do me a favour though, and leave that pocket-watch . Pop gave it to me when I was eight and its all I really have of his; it isn’t really worth much money, anyway so if you could leave that there I’d really appreciate it a lot, because its worth a lot to me.” then I felt the gun move away from the back of my still-aching head and heard the thief behind me sniffle and burst into tears before apologizing in a pathetically childish voice that’s tone sounded eerily familiar- pop. Written December 24th, 2001 © on Dec 23 2001 06:04 PM PST   18 • 0 • 10