5amity

 

 

"I was a shy, fat child."

 

I peer into the bespecked windows of Chris Peterson's soul, which are, at this ungodly hour, saddled loosely with a devil-may-care film unique to those tired enough to set themselves on fire for fun. They could take a nap, or go nuts with a bat, or just have another latte and calmly dictate in Chinese. It's a scary feeling---liberating at times, certainly something to be said for the freedom tacked to insanity---but overall, it just makes me nervous. Plus, I've had a cup of coffee and half a Diet Coke and there's fuzziness in my third eye, so connecting with my center is near-impossible. And now it seems a brain goblin has pulled apart an omelette with his bare hands and let the hot innards drip through his boar horns, forging a deep cheese hammock betwixt. He smiles and keeps chewing, and we prep to square off. 

 

But presently, my auto pilot suggests I don't indulge this meta-duel at work. I groan and come back, bracing for human contact.

 

We idle in the Jeep, me in the backseat, gripping the leather in pure strung-out horror.  Even conjuring the gruesome sex I had last night cannot save me from being 7 hours overdrawn in my sleep account, and admittedly pretty f*****g hungover.  I swallow hard.  Louis is driving and doesn't feel good; he'll be of zero use to me today.  Most thankfully, there is a taupe tuft of hair in plain view, belonging to Mr. Peterson, who I find...stunning.  A dapper gay with the face of a teen, he's quick on his feet and every fabulous cliché you can think of. I mean really, my fingers are gushing as they pound the keyboard and my left shoulder's cocked slightly to mimic playing a tight jazz number that might please Nathan Lane, in sassy effort to dish justice in full.  We're currently hovering on a joke about his childhood, which was farmed like a rare diamond during a traffic nightmare to Manhattan from JFK.  Sleepy Chris Peterson had been semi-conscious, but fully aware of my sly inquistion, and answering questions with just enough care to hold court on a pedestal with the likes of Britney and Ayn Rand without ostensibly basking in the smug glory of interview.  I admired his respect for this happy balance, me playing zealous fan and he, the savvy muse who literally kept his eyes shut to demonstrate not humility, but nonchalance.  Because let's cut the s**t, humility is for p*****s.  Graceful acceptance that you're interesting, that's something.  Staging a colloquial set-up so everyone gets what they need out of 45 minutes of potentially dead air, brilliant.  I liked Chris for many reasons, his self-parodying black-rimmed glasses and tendency towards manorexia being two, but I liked his humanness best.  It was fun and shifty and heartfelt.

 

"What were you like as a child."  I stated my question slow and clear, not even lifting my voice at the end like a real question, so's not to waste time wondering if I'd whined.  I knew he'd return the serve promptly, and I had to be ready.

Reviews

[MacKenzie]

i am sorry you don't like it matthew. no i will not be writing more on this piece, it was more of a journal entry after a harsh day at work. also i tend to take liberties with verb tenses; i feel flow trumps all and sometimes the "ed" or what have you seems to get in the way. thank you for the critique

[matthew henry]

the voice is good, in that it seems strong and can hold itself for the term. I wonder though how long you could keep it up, and further, how long the reader would stick with it. It is somewhat dense. Also, you switch verb tenses, and that's just confusing. Are you writing more on this piece?

[Pax Analog]

Cool piece!

Quietly wicked humor lacerating a slice o' life.

All by way of prelude to an interview.

Has an indie cinema quality.