wait like kafka

I go to the movies on an empty stomach and on the way back, stop off at Dunkin Donuts, inhale a half dozen doughnuts, then pull into a dingy little bar called Dipso’s Delight, order a 7 & 7, munch on stale peanuts, watch the Friday night fights, get into a philosophical discussion with a guy named Ned who admits to not knowing what the hell he’s talking about half the time.

 

“It’s like wandering around in some kinda daze,” he says. “A fog, a mild nightmare that gets your heart racin’, raises your blood pressure 20, 30 points. That’s what my life has become… and they wonder why I stay the hell away from people…”

 

Ned, a city employee, works in the transit system’s information booth, dispensing bus passes and educating the public on matters of public transportation. He’s divorced, has two kids he sees every other weekend, and has a weakness for unfiltered cigarettes and chili cheese dogs. He wants to know if I have a girl.

 

“She thinks I’m a glass half-empty guy, which disturbs her,” I say.

 

Ned smiles, shakes his head, lights another butt. “Like their moods are some kinda picnic,” he says. “I have been away from the triangle for quite some time now, and I’m not gonna lie to ya, I occasionally get a little nostalgic for it. But I’m getting to the age where I just don’t wanna hafta work for it like I usta. My days of hoop-jumping are over. Can’t hang with ’em like I usta. And I’m damn sure too tired to fake it.”

 

He laughs, scratches his beard, takes a toothpick from a shot glass on the bar, and begins picking his teeth. “My advice to you,” he says. “is tell’er she needs to take the good with the bad. If she can’t do that, she needs to become a nun, a lesbian, or a celibate. Tell’er that. She knows which side her bread’s buttered on…”

 

I finish my drink, thank him for the conversation, and drive home, taking all the side roads.

 

When I return to the apartment, my girl is lounging on the couch under a blanket, sipping from a water glass filled to the brim with white zinfandel, and watching some movie on HBO starring Pamela Anderson.

 

“Have fun?” she says with an edge.

“Look,” I say. “You’re just going to have to take the good with the bad. If you can’t do that, you’re going to have to become a nun, a lesbian, or celibate. You know which side your bread’s buttered on…”

 

“You make a better door than a window,” she says, then tells me I’m obstructing her view of the television.

 

I go to the bedroom, slam the door, sit down at the typewriter, type:

 

Nobody can make me feel guilty… guilt is a man-made emotion… it does not even exist!

 

There’s a knock at the door.

 

“You alright?” she says.

 

“I’m busy! In the throes of creativity!”

 

She apologizes, and her footsteps fade away.

 

I type:

 

I used to be afraid of being pussywhipped when I was a younger man… now I’m just scared of being alone…

 

I turned out the lights, fell asleep, dreamed of the colors of the newsprint, and waited like Kafka.