As dear old Leo Johnson was fond of saying, “New Shoes”. I haven’t bought new sneakers in six years so excuse me for mentioning them because it’s an excuse for mentioning them. And technically you’re not supposed to wear shoes inside here but fuck that for a minute because for one thing they’re clean unlike the rest of this gutter trash country, and it’s my place so there.
Oh I like it here, I just wish that for heaven’s sake they’d buy a few street sweeping machines, and hire some cleaners.
He had those kind of teeth that were so gapless and white that you started to believe they were only two solid pieces of enameled calcium.
His pit was a great pit. Despite the grudge I held, I had to admit that even if I wangled my way from one contract to the next I could never hope to live in a pit like his.
I sat there drinking milkshakes, eating fondue, icecream, cheesecake and buttered scones with jam, and saw how he was transitioning from actor to director. How his future-self would one day hire his past-self to play the character he had become, in all but outward appearance.
He mustn’t have been looking when he stepped out, or if he was, he was looking the wrong way. It almost appeared that he was rebounding off the asphalt, off the front of the bus, and into the air the way a tennis ball would off of a school’s side-wall. The bus ground to a halt, leaving only the faintest of marks on the dust-coloured street.
They crowded around the unmoving, dobbled-over body.
His pants had come down to the ankle, down to a fetching pair of sand-shoes. Skid-markings on the outside-back of his white-cotton Y-fronts were undeniable. Hands were raised to mouths in shock.
“And yet, a handsome man indeed”—“he smells of dairy”, said others.
“I haven’t smelt-uh the reek of dairy products-uh like that since our excursion to the Maeil factory”, said one girl.