This can’t last, he told himself months after That Day. That Day no longer lingered at the forefront of his mind but he still referred to it as That Day. He referred to it when Poole would come through the sliding door to find him half a bottle of whiskey down, glass-eyeing television images of mega church sermons and reruns of Matlock. He referred to it in divagated phone calls with his father about his employment status. That Day became an excuse for one mood or another during random dinner dates or happy hour rendezvous. It was self-pity and when he finally recognized it as such, he would soon find a way out of it. He would find a way to burn it for fuel.
He took to reading absurdist philosophy in the coffee shop. He became a fixture in the dense mid-day light of the big paned windows with his books and his intellectual friends talking about the ingredients of the universe. He would photograph young women who were easily distracted from their laptops and piles of Art History into discussions about morality and reason and Jesus. Hatchet found the optimism in their young fantasies inspiring, sometimes half-wishing they could tempt his common sense.
The shop welcomed an amalgam of different cliques into its nooks and tangent crevices. Groups like the Dog Boys, a gang of young artists who had a penchant for vandalism and hard drugs, enjoying the protection of a reclusive benefactor, a cattleman rumored to be bizarre in the extreme. Hatchet shook his hand once at a solar convention and suspected self-medicatation. Some of the Dog Boys alumni had been under Hatchet’s watch at both the school and detention center and most of them frequented the coffee shop. These random reunions with them were generally cordial if not fraternal, a mutual respect seen among jailers and the jailed. Once a Dog Boy, always a Dog Boy. Many of the younger crew were shepherded by the older wiser now pot bellied punks who reminisced over nights in rooms in the rich man’s house full of swords and deviant orgies with both sexes.
She usually came through the shop doors around 1pm with every edge of her shining with naïve bloom as if her perimeters were smoldering, only a hint of a flame flickering down the lines of her. She would see him lift his eyes from his current read and she would always make sure to be staring straight ahead before their eyes could ever meet. She always ordered white tea and sat among the potted plants, trying her best to appear disinterested in anything that might tempt her attention. He had overheard some of her conversations, enough to have a clear picture of who she wanted others to see when they looked at her. And it was easy to look at her.
This can’t last, Poole told him. Hatchet delighted in the synchronicity of his statement. He had been staring at her through the blade shaped leaves of one of the coffee shop plants when Poole and Jane came in and sat down around him. What are you gonna do about money, Hatchet? I’m looking for an angle; why the sudden concern? Jesus, what the hell does that mean, you're looking for an angle? It means I’m gonna figure it out; what’s your problem? We just came from lunch at La Flores; your landlord was in there bitching. He’s a pushover, Poole, not a problem. You need to find a job, Cochise, Jane told him. I’ve told you, I’m not going back there, not gonna whore my brain out ever again, not gonna happen. Then what fuck are you gonna do? Yeah, Poole said, you gonna philosophize some rent?
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
I’ve seen you do some pretty stupid shit.
Hatchet tore himself from her glow to look into Poole’s earnest face. He gave it a long study until Poole squinted in frustration. See that girl over there? Hatchet asked. Poole glanced. Yeah, I know all about her. Her name’s Malorie. I know that; I’ve met her, has a boyfriend over in Afghanistan, a marine I think. Fuck that guy. You’ve lost it. I’ve lost nothing. That girl is a felony, Hatchet, Jane scolded him, tilting her head to look down her nose at him. She’s nineteen, people. Uh-huh, what does this have to with your rent? How can you be worried about my rent while I wanna stick my dick in this girl’s ass? Well, there is that, Poole said. Jane reached out and touched his arm. You’re being creepy, Marcus; stop it and let’s get a beer.
He took to reading absurdist philosophy in the coffee shop. He became a fixture in the dense mid-day light of the big paned windows with his books and his intellectual friends talking about the ingredients of the universe. He would photograph young women who were easily distracted from their laptops and piles of Art History into discussions about morality and reason and Jesus. Hatchet found the optimism in their young fantasies inspiring, sometimes half-wishing they could tempt his common sense.
The shop welcomed an amalgam of different cliques into its nooks and tangent crevices. Groups like the Dog Boys, a gang of young artists who had a penchant for vandalism and hard drugs, enjoying the protection of a reclusive benefactor, a cattleman rumored to be bizarre in the extreme. Hatchet shook his hand once at a solar convention and suspected self-medicatation. Some of the Dog Boys alumni had been under Hatchet’s watch at both the school and detention center and most of them frequented the coffee shop. These random reunions with them were generally cordial if not fraternal, a mutual respect seen among jailers and the jailed. Once a Dog Boy, always a Dog Boy. Many of the younger crew were shepherded by the older wiser now pot bellied punks who reminisced over nights in rooms in the rich man’s house full of swords and deviant orgies with both sexes.
She usually came through the shop doors around 1pm with every edge of her shining with naïve bloom as if her perimeters were smoldering, only a hint of a flame flickering down the lines of her. She would see him lift his eyes from his current read and she would always make sure to be staring straight ahead before their eyes could ever meet. She always ordered white tea and sat among the potted plants, trying her best to appear disinterested in anything that might tempt her attention. He had overheard some of her conversations, enough to have a clear picture of who she wanted others to see when they looked at her. And it was easy to look at her.
This can’t last, Poole told him. Hatchet delighted in the synchronicity of his statement. He had been staring at her through the blade shaped leaves of one of the coffee shop plants when Poole and Jane came in and sat down around him. What are you gonna do about money, Hatchet? I’m looking for an angle; why the sudden concern? Jesus, what the hell does that mean, you're looking for an angle? It means I’m gonna figure it out; what’s your problem? We just came from lunch at La Flores; your landlord was in there bitching. He’s a pushover, Poole, not a problem. You need to find a job, Cochise, Jane told him. I’ve told you, I’m not going back there, not gonna whore my brain out ever again, not gonna happen. Then what fuck are you gonna do? Yeah, Poole said, you gonna philosophize some rent?
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
I’ve seen you do some pretty stupid shit.
Hatchet tore himself from her glow to look into Poole’s earnest face. He gave it a long study until Poole squinted in frustration. See that girl over there? Hatchet asked. Poole glanced. Yeah, I know all about her. Her name’s Malorie. I know that; I’ve met her, has a boyfriend over in Afghanistan, a marine I think. Fuck that guy. You’ve lost it. I’ve lost nothing. That girl is a felony, Hatchet, Jane scolded him, tilting her head to look down her nose at him. She’s nineteen, people. Uh-huh, what does this have to with your rent? How can you be worried about my rent while I wanna stick my dick in this girl’s ass? Well, there is that, Poole said. Jane reached out and touched his arm. You’re being creepy, Marcus; stop it and let’s get a beer.
Edit 11.5.2018