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Gene points to the wall that is past the apartment’s couch and TV, directly in front of the kitchen. Stacy: “Is this a converted one bedroom?” Gene: “Yeah.” Stacy: “I thought that only people who were just out of college lived in those.” Gene opens the door to his room and sees his clothes from the past week littering the floor. “This is cheaper. It’s not so bad.” Stacy: “Can I borrow a shirt or something?” Gene rummages through his drawers, which are filled mostly with t-shirts that he never wears. He thinks about looking in his laundry bag for a shirt, but he can’t remember if it’s clean or dirty and so he tosses her a ratty college t with a hole under the left armpit. Stacy: “Turn around, ok?” Gene obliges, but turns back too quickly and sees Stacy’s naked back. He involuntarily puts his hand in his pockets. Stacy looks at him again, smiles and says, “I feel kind of awkward about sleeping in the same bed as you. Could you sleep on the couch tonight?” “What?” “Well, all I know about you is that your name is Mark and that you picked me up in a bar, and now I’m a little more sober, but I can’t make it home and I don’t think that it’s too much to ask for you to do the right thing and act like a gentleman tonight.” “Umm… ok?” Gene takes sheets out of his laundry bag and closes the door to his room behind him. In the morning, at around 8 AM, Pete gets home from work and nudges him, “Dude, why are you sleeping on the couch?” “Girl… room… wants privacy.” Pete: “You’re a pussy, you know that, right?” Gene, still mostly asleep: “I’m not a pussy. It’s not like I’m going to take her out for breakfast or anything this morning.” Pete: “Whatever.” Then he walks by the bathroom, which still reeks of vomit, flushes the toilet and goes into his room, which is adjacent to the bathroom. He passes out on top of his comforter until his cell phone starts ringing. It’s work, asking him to show up again.
There’s this song playing on my iPod right now – I’m on my way into work, sardined into the subway and trying hard not to look at this woman’s breasts because she’s standing right in front of me – and the song is called Yeah Yeah Yeah. I had to look at my iPod to see who sings it; it’s this completely terrible singer named Uncle Kracker, and I’m not even sure why I have this album. I must have poached it. Anyway, the lyrics go something like, “I don’t know why I come here, but I know I’ll never leave,” and I’ve decided that this should be the theme song for investment bankers everywhere. And, no, I didn’t get caught looking at that woman’s breasts. I keep a little pamphlet by my bed at home. It’s not really a pamphlet. It’s this thing I wrote when I was… I must have been six or so. It lays out the things I needed to do to become an astronaut by the time I was fifteen. It also assumed a generous reduction in the skill set, age and education of astronauts. I want to be able to reminisce and say things like, ‘when you’re a kid, you’ve got the entire world open in front of etc.,’ but you can’t really say that when your parents are fine with pretty much anything you do. You don’t want to be an astronaut anymore, son? That’s ok. What would you like to do? Why, you want to be a carnie? That’s fantastic! Your great-grandfather who made it over here in the belly of an elephant would be so proud! What do you mean it’s impossible to survive in the belly of an elephant? You’re here, aren’t you?
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Prism Fragments |
