And Then. Donald Breckenridge
down the drain.
Brian got up early that Saturday to do his laundry then tracked down a friend who owed him ten dollars and scored some crystal meth in the process. He met Suzanne by the token booth at the Clinton-Washington G stop, “I got two hits of acid on my way over here,” she exclaimed while passing through the wooden gate, “isn’t that insane,” that slammed behind her. The black and white images of Suzanne he’d developed and printed as the week dragged on, “Are you serious?” now seemed feeble as they finally faced each other, “Where?” Her forearm brushed his, “Right near where we met,” as he led the way toward the exit, “in Washington Square.” When she passed through the gate and they embraced he knew something extraordinary was happening. Suzanne was undeniably beautiful and Brian mistook that for virtue. He spent Saturday afternoon assembling his best work and hung the black and white enlargements on the taut wire running across the living room. “How much did you pay for them?” She was wearing a low-cut black polyester top that accentuated her breasts, “Ten bucks,” a short denim skirt and high cork-heeled sandals, “the guy who sold them to me said I should take it with a friend.” The tall front windows were wide open and passing car stereos, trolling ice cream trucks, an argument between two women about a man who happened to be standing in front of the building, kids shouting from adjacent stoops and the ones clustered around the open hydrant down the block filled the living room as he poured over the images. Scoring acid in Washington Square confirmed another part of the city’s mythology Suzanne was eager to embrace. Brian had done three hits last March and tripped alone in his apartment during a blizzard, “You really shouldn’t buy acid from people you don’t know,” nearly four feet of snow fell from the sky while he sat in an armchair before a window overlooking Lafayette Avenue while studying his perpetually morphing reflection in glowing planes of glass, “unless you like throwing your money away on little bits of paper.” She turned to him and asked, “Aren’t you interested?” He’d done a bump for luck, “Acid is for hippies,” just before leaving to meet her at the station, “but I’m game if you are.” As they climbed the stairs Brian asked, “How was the subway?” She removed a bible tract from her purse, “Really fucking weird,” presented it to him, “someone gave me this,” then recalled the middle-aged preacher with the greasy comb-over sweating profusely in a purple polyester suit, “and the train took forever,” who demanded Suzanne accept God’s salvation as she walked onto the piss soaked downtown A/C/E platform at the furnace-like West 4th street station, “I don’t know how people can do that everyday.” Brian scoffed at the black and white illustration of an opened-armed Christ standing in a supermarket isle Jesus is everywhere and awaiting your love! “The A Train doesn’t run express on the weekends.” They emerged into Brooklyn sunlight, “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” and Brian noted the deep blue of her eyes. He wanted to see them saturated in Kodachrome as they lingered at the top of the stairs. A cloudless afternoon like today would be perfect. She raised her eyebrows then asked, “Which way?” He pointed and then they walked by the black Chevy Nova with the shattered windshield propped up on cinder blocks.
Hello Tom,
Thank you so much for taking care of Olive. Her dry food, always make sure she has some dry food in her bowl, is in the cabinet above the sink along with enough cans of food for the summer, if you only open a new can every other day. Please feed her a quarter of a can in the evening. Cover and refrigerate the leftovers. There are two extra bags of dry food in the hall closet by the front door. If you run out of cans please buy the same flavor and brand, otherwise she will get diarrhea. The $40 I’ve left you should be enough for everything. She is in the habit of eating dinner between 6 and 7 EVERY NIGHT. Also, make sure that you change her water twice a day. It can get very hot in the apartment so she needs plenty of fresh water. Olive is twelve and sometimes gets neurotic when I’m away. Please try and play with her every day, at first she will probably hide from you, so give her a few days to get used to you. She likes to play with her toy mouse, fill that with fresh catnip (in the metal tea box above the sink) once a week. I hope that your time here is productive. I trust you will not have a lot of people over. I will be in Athens for a few days and then on the island of Amorgos until the first week of August. I’ll call you once I’m there.
Thanks,
Paula
I encountered the owner of the diner and an elderly waitress standing behind the counter. They were discussing the best place to display the sign for a new online delivery service. The owner greeted me like a long lost friend while handing me the sign, “You can order what you want on there.” I recognized the logo, “I’ve seen this advertised on the subway,” placed it on the counter and asked the waitress for a coconut donut then added that I didn’t need a bag. The owner proclaimed, “You can now order that on your computer through the internet.” I was taken by his enthusiasm, “That’s really great,” although I’ve never purchased anything, “I hope you get more customers that way,” except their donuts. “Your donuts are really great,” the food has never looked appetizing, “the best in the neighborhood.” Bleached color enlargements lining the walls above the counter are backlit by dim fluorescents and feature dozens of greasy dishes made with the cheapest ingredients available. The waitress handed me the donut with a serrated sheet of wax paper folded over it, “That will be ninety cents,” and two napkins. I removed the dollar from my wallet and handed it over while wondering if a purchase this small would make the minimum for free delivery. If I asked the owner that, even if he knew I was joking, it would only prolong our conversation. He proclaimed, “This will change the way my customers order food.” The waitress rang up my purchase then handed me a dime. When I thanked her she told me to have a nice day. I pocketed the dime then congratulated the owner while pushing the door open.
“Is it your heart,” Suzanne crossed her right leg over her left knee, “or your phone that’s broken?” His hands were numb from the cold, “I was waiting for your call.” The semi-transparent pink nylon curtain before the kitchen window filtered the dim grey light. “How do you wait for a phone call when your ringer is off?” Rain was dotting the windshields of the parked cars. The curtain obscured the fire escape and the tall bare oak dominating the back lot. The wind swept yellow pages torn from a phone book along the sidewalk.
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