please don't judge me by this, I know it sucks:
There was a man standing around the corner and he creeped the shit outa me. I didn’t know if it was all the tequila of last night. Or maybe it was the weed. Or maybe it was the twelve Sangrias I had downed at some point. Yeah I had had some shit last night. But the text book didn’t define hangovers with hallucinations. Or did it? Yet I felt like the proper fool thinking of asking anyone around me to confirm if there was a man in a cowboy hat standing against the shadows of the wall about fifty meters away from me. It would be something a guy in a horror movie or a comedy film (depends on how you look at it) would do. And I don’t think I was there yet.
But I could still see him. Or maybe it was a tree or something. You know how when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone and the lights are off and there’s only a faint glow coming into your room from the buzzing streetlights outside and suddenly you think the jacket handing off the peg beside the door isn’t really a jacket, but a guy staring intently at you? And then you bloody well turn on the lights anyway, just to confirm and realize what kind of an idiot you really are? It could be that. Maybe the man was actually a tree, leaning into the damn wall. All I had to do was to ask someone if they could see the tree too. But hell, even that would label me as crazy.
And there were crazier shit happening around me. Fat retarded fuckers were getting blowjobs from equally fat hookers in the other alley ways because they can’t pay for more. In some room some ass was worshipping some whore’s vagina because that’s what he gets off on- balancing a pastry on her cunt and waving incense sticks around her pubes. But asking someone if they could see a tree would probably get me cut. That’s just crazy shit.
My mother’s voice at the back of my head kept telling me it’s the alcohol. Sober up. Don’t do the G. But sobering up would make all of this unbearable. The fear of the tree had forced a bit of sobriety, and I didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit. I liked the constant fuzz of being drunk and stoned. The possibilities here were endless. I was Kurt Cobain without his gun, and I was Ozzy Osbourne, floating in the rainbow river, leaving a trail of bat heads and bat shit for fellow Satanists to pick up after me, and drinking the blood of rats. I was Lestat, the brat prince. The only certainty was that I couldn’t lose my equipment. That shit will be my redemption when I decided to head back home from the bloody amusement park that I had chosen to work with.
A brainwave. I aim my camera at the guy, and press the record button. I can’t see shit on the view finder but I’m hoping against hope that something would be recorded. And I can just ask someone around me to tell me what he sees. Good plan, I think. You’re just a do gooder filmmaker. Your status is just a little less that a social worker. They’ll help you out. I look up and the shadow is suddenly gone. Hallucination, I think, with a sigh of relief. But to be sure, I go up to a pimp standing by the door of a whore house and playback what I’d captured, and ask him what he sees. He gives me a once over, pegs me as useless, and complies.
“A man. In a hat.” He says.
And all my old fears go away to make way for new ones. Like the fucking fashion industry.
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