He'd done one before years ago, and now was doing one again. While reading up on the the new Alien prequel/one-off/sidequel and simultaneously watching on his other screen the '79 film "Jaws In Space With Truckers" that started it all of course.
He was sober, coffee buzzed, and entirely too unfocused. After completing the madatory 4 hours ("no matter how fast you read it") it was test time. So, naturally, he Googled some of the questions to get some of the answers. He finished and was shown he'd received a score of 95 out of 100, he needed an 80 to pass.
Although, he knew that paying the $14.95 with his credit card and sitting there for 4 hours while cheating to beat the class whilst watching a movie--was all a small price to pay instead of stay at the accident and turning it into a "Drunk Stop" ontop of things.
"Fuck that! That's ridiculous!" Says, Mr. Jefferies. He'll take fleeing like a coward and dealing with the shame and guilt any day than put that shit into his life record to hand Death and his scythe.
Hoorah for the Florida Driver's Road Justice and Safety System.
With every second that passed, a thought was compounded with another on top of another--which was only one thing, of course. . .
He wanted her with every breath he took in and expelled out. In every beat of his heart.
He didn't feel scared anymore, but. . . He did miss her with the life and passion of the burning of the sun.
He hit his pillows hard and groaned, scratching the side of his stupid face where stubble had turned into hair, now giving him a slight wave, an aura (if you will) of a beard. The stupid man felt the blanket and sheet wrap him-stupid-self up. As his long, shitty, brownish/red stupid hair fell on his shoulder, he turned to wipe it off and felt his shoulder pinch, making a fist inside himself. That pain that came and went whimsically. He turned over wincing and stared at the wall, then at what could be considered an "empty spot" in his little stupid bed.
Closing his stupid eyes he knew a dream was coming, and hoped it stayed that way, not becoming a nightmare. Not another. Not giving him sweat and too much rapid eye movement. That'd make it a six nights in a row.
~/~
He tipped his pint glass back taking more of the wonderful lager out of the glass and tried not to think. But, possessing only the mere power of Dan Aykroyd in Ghostbusters, that failed miserably of course.
Shaking his head near violently, he tried to bore the incoming images out; of things long ago, or things that never actualized, things wanted or things maybe to come. Another one hitting him in the face practically breaking his nose open, spewing blood onto the table. He'd had enough for now of his back corner booth in the empty Irish eatery in the early morning.
Closing his stupid eyes he knew a dream was coming, and hoped it stayed that way, not becoming a nightmare. Not another. Not giving him sweat and too much rapid eye movement. That'd make it a six nights in a row.
~/~
He tipped his pint glass back taking more of the wonderful lager out of the glass and tried not to think. But, possessing only the mere power of Dan Aykroyd in Ghostbusters, that failed miserably of course.
Shaking his head near violently, he tried to bore the incoming images out; of things long ago, or things that never actualized, things wanted or things maybe to come. Another one hitting him in the face practically breaking his nose open, spewing blood onto the table. He'd had enough for now of his back corner booth in the empty Irish eatery in the early morning.
He ventured out onto the terrace, the outside patio of the pub, and lit a cigarette, arms over the concrete railing staring out at the surroundings that very much told him he was in Florida. Florida mornings, the best way to get a fantastic impression of the place. He knew he had to get back soon, another beer for the road and then hit the bricks to get to work. And as he took another drag and pushed the smoke out of his nostrils, the thought of his lonely bed fired a synapses inside his internal organic computer and another memory blitzed him. Taking out his legs and leaving him to soak up the hit.
Crawling into the bed with the moon glowing beyond the window shade, with a weird, child-like smile on his face and soft focus in his eyes, he cradled her and gave her his leg, squeezing gently on her bottom half she dispensed a small noise from inside her throat, letting him know she felt 100% content. He proceeded to give her something he came to refer to as " 'Round-the-world." Simple, soft, delicate kisses with an almost cotton touch. Starting at her chin, he went one after the other after the other after the other until he came back around.
It was mushy. It was gushy, it was nothing you tell your guy friends about--and she loved it. Only this time, she returned his facial advances and gave him a version of her own, holding dearly onto that slender, and a little fuzzy, face of his.
The two fell asleep soon after and woke with just enough time to enjoy each other's company in their friend's hijacked bed. A regular thing they did to her, not that she minded. Catching eyes and using no words at all, it started with kissing and smirking, then transformed into something else, something more. . .
They shared themselves in the bed, the morning light begging to course it's way into the room through the shade in front of the window. After they had finished, and not a moment after, he didn't roll off, and she didn't let him either. After giving her forehead small pecks of his lips--in between his large breaths he was trying to regulate--he spoke the first words of the day she would hear:
". . .Good morning. . ."
She smiled at the notion.
They had to get back to campus, taking the lengthy and scenic drive back to town. So they could slave and obey inside a classroom with a desk, a chair, a notebook, a laptop, a pen, and a smelly old teacher. . . great.
But at least he could get through it easier now, calling up the newly stored memory that morning in his History II class with Mrs. Bran, such a frigid one she was. As she dolled out the parts of the newly formed and growing American culture vs. the Red Coats with tea on their boats, he had his headphones in one ear, playing Mahmoud Ahmed's "Kulun Mankwalesh." Mohamed started to play with melodies and vocals a bit, letting his vocals go on with the terrific funk and harmony of the Ethiopian Jazz band.
Bobbing his head slightly, he surged with quiet energy at the excitement of when such a thing would happen for him again. Like a junkie, like an addict, he was hooked on the pangs of loveliness he now had access too. The little red kid with stupid hair and cut up jeans needed his next fix of that sweet sweet nectar. He'd drink it down like a desert cactus next time he got his hands on it. He would think, he would know. . .
It was mushy. It was gushy, it was nothing you tell your guy friends about--and she loved it. Only this time, she returned his facial advances and gave him a version of her own, holding dearly onto that slender, and a little fuzzy, face of his.
They shared themselves in the bed, the morning light begging to course it's way into the room through the shade in front of the window. After they had finished, and not a moment after, he didn't roll off, and she didn't let him either. After giving her forehead small pecks of his lips--in between his large breaths he was trying to regulate--he spoke the first words of the day she would hear:
". . .Good morning. . ."
She smiled at the notion.
They had to get back to campus, taking the lengthy and scenic drive back to town. So they could slave and obey inside a classroom with a desk, a chair, a notebook, a laptop, a pen, and a smelly old teacher. . . great.
But at least he could get through it easier now, calling up the newly stored memory that morning in his History II class with Mrs. Bran, such a frigid one she was. As she dolled out the parts of the newly formed and growing American culture vs. the Red Coats with tea on their boats, he had his headphones in one ear, playing Mahmoud Ahmed's "Kulun Mankwalesh." Mohamed started to play with melodies and vocals a bit, letting his vocals go on with the terrific funk and harmony of the Ethiopian Jazz band.
Bobbing his head slightly, he surged with quiet energy at the excitement of when such a thing would happen for him again. Like a junkie, like an addict, he was hooked on the pangs of loveliness he now had access too. The little red kid with stupid hair and cut up jeans needed his next fix of that sweet sweet nectar. He'd drink it down like a desert cactus next time he got his hands on it. He would think, he would know. . .
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