He wasn't godless, not necessarily, but he was certainly bereft of a role model- and it showed in his long lean face and his shaded brown eyes and the weird way he wore his clothes, like he had nowhere to go and no one to hide from and nothing to do but stand on street corners, smoking for hour on the hour like women who typewrite- he was a loner, he was lonely, he was unessential to the world and utterly and fully aware, and somewhere deep within, somewhere beneath those deep dark sunglasses that shone like your pupil does in the evening- he didn't really give a shit.
He would go into bathrooms in public places and when he was sure that he was most essentially alone, (the whiskey and vodka and vomit soaked man in the corner with half a hand down his pants never did count, he was not a man, he was a thing in the corner with a lazy eye)-he would step oh so close to the mirror, toe to toe with the sink, and open his eye just a bit too weird and watch his pupil, right down into that ivory black squid ink where he thought he could see fish swimming-oh, he swore he could see God in their some nights, some nights when he was drinking and he was moving and had sat for too long in the corner, those endless Imax nights when he started to feel like sobbing mournfully to himself in an alley like a movie star, except he did not have enough needle scars ……oh, it was a magic moment, antique and historical, like he imagined some old caveman did one evening when he was washing his hands in the river, like he imagined the more enlightened breed of tiger did when they had their heads down and were drinking, like he imagined all the women that he'd ever really loved did when they were alone….and for a moment he was connected, tuning in, listening to the broadcast, watching God pole dance in his eye and he was breathing with it….
And then a door would open and some twitchy hippie would shuffle in to light up a reefer, and he'd dance so fast away from the mirror, in this lithe dog-movement he'd perfected, and then he'd just melt away, back out into the bar and back out into the night, like he was never there- it was life, it was living, he was always silent on the streets and no one noticed……
He was so padfooted when he walked, like a big skinny tiger with flashy and irregular eyes- oh, he did not belong here, he did not belong anywhere, he was the rebel without a cause except he did not have anyone to watch him go about the business of rebellion….and, come to think of it, (god knows he was always thinking of it), he missed the crowd of spectators who used to gather to watch him be a crazy fucked up tweaked out savage back when he was still flowing and still burning like liquid mercury. He missed them so much, them and their quickly murmured expressions of violent half there kid-awe when he'd pulled off some frenetic stunt against something or another which had caught his eye a little, the little cash donations and the misty eyed voyeurism that he felt following him whenever he used to move in his swinging bad-ass stride- oh, god, and he missed the women that came along with it, the ones who'd twist him and bend him and snap him and move him, then pat his head and kiss him with their lips slightly curled; that and the peculiar kinetic movement of their lithe strong bodies, the way their hair never ceased to flow, the strong armed lazy fashion in which they walked, like they had everywhere to go and nothing to do when they arrived, nothing at all to do but laze around like languid yellow and black pythons-good lord, even the way they made their terrible coffee in the mornings, and did not bother to fix their hair when he finally stumbled in his narcoleptic way out of bed- this was love, this was lust, this always ended oh so fucking fast….
But they all left eventually for they all had agendas and worlds to save and many many pages to write, and he would see them off on his doorstop, his eyes set and hard, his hand raised slightly in that psuedo wave that only pretending men use-oh, he was always so bad at pretending, and it always only took one off hand glance for them to understand totally and know that his mind was twisting in on itself and curling like a rubber band, just ready to snap and run away- and they saw it and they understood, and they just shrugged their gorgeous white and pink and cream shoulders, and walked away, their cheap bohemian handbags thumping in a tattoo beat against their hips- and he would watch them go, and he would die for a moment or perhaps two…..
And he started to die for those five minutes periods oh so many times that he grew used to it, become accustomed and resigned. Women, after all, were just silky and volatile creatures, and you kept them for a while but then they would leave, and there was no earthly force that could stop them in their departure, or at least none that a crazy has been like himself could fucking hope to summon up with his limited resources and lazily uncreative brain- and he finally just gave up on looking for the One and looking for The Woman and looking for family and god and law and something perfect that they'd serialize on cable. Oh, he gave it up completely, absconded and disposed of and sent down the road, and he started looking for cheap sex and a girl who could bring her own booze- oh, there is a secret and crisp pain in lowering your standards and never expecting to raise them again, and he ate it like he ate the cheap salads he'd order when he was low on money, and he was always low….
And so he'd ended up here, if he was even totally sure where here was, which, as a matter of fact, he wasn't, although uncertainty was so hammered into him and beaten into him that he did not consider it much past abnormal, just another quirk in the system of living. He was under the impression that it was a large city with a thriving bohemian and intellectual population, but he was certain that the bohemians wouldn't like him because he didn't much care for tofu or expanding his mind or having long discussions with the common dolphin, and he was downright certain that the intellectuals would not like him. There were many and varied reasons, which did not generally bother to meld together in something useful in his mind, but he supposed that the largest was because he did not much enjoy the un-couth slinging about of a word- a word was a valuable thing to waste and a disgustingly beautiful thing to use, in his mind, and the orgy of gigantic seething look-at-me-go-for-I-may-wear-plaid words they tossed about in conversation just pissed him off a little, pissed him off and touched off a tiny little nerve in his brain in such a way that was ever so potent and far reaching - and they returned the unconscious snub in their own somewhat gentle way, twittering like parakeets as he tried not to stumble over his own feet-oh, he could not belong to the subcultures, so he walked around them, trying to make sure that their paths crossed innocuously and their general acquaintances did not engage in overlap- oh, he was just too godamn sick of being treated like a stranger, but he always was anyway….
And so he found himself sitting at an hellishly uncomfortable oh-so-fucking-trendy- barstool, trying to drink and trying not to think and always failing, like his distraction methods always failed and probably always would fail- oh, fuck the patterns, fuck the expected way of things, fuck it all and dash it all, he would create himself and he would create his personality and he would create his lovers and maybe he'd even create this here drink- he was at the helm, he was driving, he just needed to give the steering wheel a little tug, and he would be ready, he'd be running, he'd be jiving like James Dean behind the wheel of a Thunderbird that was sliding like a wolf out over a Western movie set- life would be beautiful and he could sleep stretched out with a woman that would never ever leave again, and they would write such perfect poems when the day grew foggy-
And then the blonde in the hot pants walked in the door, and his eyes wandered to her ass, and he decided that she didn't look like the STD type, although the presence of crabs would require further inspection, but that was not an issue, oh, it never was…..
And he sighed and he shifted in his seat and he stubbed out his cigarette, and then he got up.