I was interested in her vagina and remembered when I was in 7th grade way Father Ebecke placed two candles on either side of my neck and blessed me in the name of Saint Blaise, so I would never choke on chicken bones. The waitress, who wouldn’t look at me, was walkin’ back and forth behind the porcelain counter, while I slumped, slurpin’ a Chunky Monkey Milkshake while workin’ on a 40-second video of a little sparrow beakin’ it around on a concrete driveway and then takin’ off into the atmosphere, into Nirvana as far as I knew. My video was gonna be a perfect work of art, and the stupid sheep-brained masses would go for it, too, the way they go for hamburgers. It had everything: bird versus concrete; bird versus man; man versus nature; and air above it all.
I was struggling with the light, the God-damned light, which even Einstein couldn’t explain, if you ask me. Who gives a shit about particles and photons? Whatever. I couldn’t get the God-damned light right.
She startled me when she stopped, turned and put her baby-makin’-aged arms crossed on the counter 14 inches from me. I wondered if she were an Indian.
“You have been working for five hours now, and it’s 3 in the morning. Do you ever stop working?”
She noticed me. The God-damned universe is infinite, I thought. Exactly what I wanted to happen had just happened—a girl 30 years younger than me had noticed me.
“No,” I said. “I never stop working.” Then I remembered how my 87-year-old paid-for-by-welfare psychiatrist, Eddie, told me, “Get a social life, why don’t you? The flupenthixal and perphenazine can improve the functions of your synapses, but they can’t get you laid.”
“What are you working on?”
She didn’t say “whattcha,” which gave me hope. Maybe she studied the classics at a community college. I would make love to her like a monster if she studied the classics. That shit intrigued me— Hercules and Adonis and Clytemnestra and all that shit. Stupid stories were the reason I was broke. I didn’t give a fuck about money. Never did. Shit, the only thing I had in life was my computer, my point-and-shoot camera, which I bought cheap on eBay, and the money I made beggin’ out on the pike from time to time.
I just like T.S. Eliot poetry and fables. I think each day about some Japanese short story I read. The main character was a Buddhist monk who was beggin’ for fruit on a street corner in Kyoto. A passer-by stopped and asked: “Don’t you want money?” The monk replied: “The more money I have, the more problems I have. Why would I want more problems?”
She cocked her head—with its two curious eyes behind a pair of big black plastic glasses, fashion favorites these days—slightly to the left.
Yeah, Father Ebecke. I wondered if he was a faggot.