I would love to tell you a story now.
Murder puts in an appearance in this story – the one I want to tell you – and cuckolding, too, and the eating of drugs, to boot, if you can believe it. So it is quite the story. Completely true. I will tell it in parts, owing both to its length and to my own unfortunate state of pathological distractibility.
I will start it and then return to it from time to time until I’ve finished. I need to tell this the right way. I owe it as much, if that makes any sense, and I do believe it to.
This is the story I would love to tell you.
It happened in a different time. In those days, people were shorter and lived near the water and George W. Bush was the President and I still nursed dreams of fame – or if not of fame per se, then of infamy, at least. Sometimes at night, I ate drugs and painted shadows on the walls.
I do not mean this in any figurative sense. I mean that I ate drugs and then I painted shadows on the walls of my apartment. While wearing a mask. Listening to recordings of African drumming.
Like I said, it was a different time.
“Well, that’s sort of fucked up, now, isn’t it?” Jamie said. She saw it all out of context, though, in the cold light of day, as they say. The shadows on the walls and the paints on the tables and the discarded mask lying on the floor.
“I won’t be staying here,” Jamie said and she did not stay there. Some nights, I slept alone in my apartment of shadows. Other nights, I stayed with Jamie over at her place.
Her place had no shadows, only cats and sometimes, a murderer.
|Jamie, in a different time.|