She Won’t Read This

The dividing line between Roanoke and Northlake is somewhere between the Racetrack and Cleveland Gibbs road but hell if I know exactly where.

I just know I get out there for business reasons and that every time I go I feel like I am crossing over time and space.

It is not the same as traveling down 360 and passing the Glade exit that I used to take to get some Double Dave’s pizza or like that spot on 20 right before or right after Dukes.

I just know there are places and spaces that touch a spot in the center of my back that makes me remember things.

Or maybe that is what happens when you listen to this, this and this.

She Won’t Read This

I don’t recognize the guy in the mirror and only barely follow the rambling thoughts he runs through the space we share.

Can’t decide if I love him, hate him or am ambivalent.

Can’t figure out if this is the normal way of things or if the last 18 months have broken large pieces off of me in places that are not supposed to break.

When the doc went over my numbers today I told him Wilner men don’t present the same way others do.

We might be mutants, aliens or supermen but whatever we are it is not…normal.

I like the not normal part, it suits me and during the hard times it makes it easier to shrug my shoulders say fuck it and just do what I do.

Somewhere mid visit to Roanoke, Northlake or wherever the the fuck I was I met a guy who moved to Texas from California.

Another transplant who told me he is quite happy to be here and said if I knew what the traffic was like in LA I would never want to go there.

I told him that most of my people are still there and that I had five decades in the city. He said ‘oh’ and I spared him the long sordid tale of how destiny conspired with fate to make the universe send me here and not some other place like Kabul or Karachi.

He asked me to send him an email and told me to make sure I didn’t send it to his partner.

“She won’t read this.”

“Not if I don’t send it to her too, she won’t.”

He laughed and said if I understood married women I would follow the logic. I couldn’t help myself and asked him if it applied to single women too.

“Women are the funniest of creatures, you don’t expect them to act as we do.”

“I have met a few who are the furriest of creatures and you are glad they shave because when you rescue them from the circus it is hard to train them.”

He didn’t respond and I decided it was because I had bored him to sleep or accidentally flipped the switch on my electric invisibility cloak.

****

These scammers who pose as IRS agents have gotten my attention.

Sometimes after they call me I call them back and see if I can speak with a different agent.

This afternoon I found myself talking to a strange woman who used the usual script. She asked me if I knew my case number and when I said no she told me to get a pen and paper to write it down.

When she asked my name I said I am J. Edgar Hoover and gave her the DC address for the Bureau and the corresponding number.

She explained I hadn’t paid taxes in quite some time so I agreed and said I didn’t want to lose my lottery winnings.

The officer said I would need to account for that and I asked if I had to declare the money I got from selling heroin.

“Officer, I invested my lottery winnings in 2 kilos of heroin and got a much better return than the market would give me.”

She stuttered and stumbled her way through the script and asked me if I wanted to resolve this matter now or fight it out of court.

“Will it be standard boxing or MMA style? Do I have to fight myself or can elect a champion?”

The officer ignored me and asked if I intended to pay now.

“I have to play with myself first and see how I feel. That government isn’t going to take my drug money. I earned it the same dirty way as that Trump guy.”

I kept her on the phone for 15 minutes and then she said “Mr. Jay Edgar I need to know you are serious.”

“I am the head of the FBI and we’re recording you” and the line went dead.

Final Pieces

Doc says that he can relate to me because we are the same age and share a couple of health issues in common.

I say he could pick better things to imitate and he tells me I am right.

“Put that on a shirt, I have some teenagers and some other people who need to see it.”

He laughs and tells me these things aren’t too serious now but they could become so very quickly if I don’t take care of them.

I say I am pretty good at making walls submit to my will and ask how much higher my BP has to go before I am in real trouble.

Later on I’ll lie down on my back and throw 250 up a couple of times.

I’ll walk under a night sky and look up and tell dad I don’t know if I believe in this Book of Life thing or if I don’t.

Maybe I can get G-d to send down an angel for me to fight. If I win you come back and if I lose you come back.

There is nothing but silence.

I wander around a dark house looking for angels to fight.

Now is a good time, I am not who I once was and in my weakened condition they might have a shot. There is no response and the taunting doesn’t yield anything but unanswered echoes.

Later I stare at the kitchen and wonder how long it would take me to pull it down to the studs and rebuild it.

“Do yourself a favor young man and instead of beating up the kitchen tear yourself down to your studs and rebuild yourself.”

No one can tell me if I heard the voice out loud or just in my head, but the idea isn’t bad.

Maybe I will.