VII
I liked to call her Julia, mostly because it was a name I’d heard long ago in a black and white movie based in Paris that was laid so thick with romance even the reel to reel it flicked upon was heavy of heart. She always laughed and smiled like she didn’t know what I was referencing, nor did she attempt to recognize the pure emotion I was laying thickly about the dense air.
She knew my routine: a thick coffee I could eat with a spoon, a medium sized side-dish of whiskey. Just to get the gears oiled. My pen flowed more freely with the coffee; whiskey was for my tongue. Julie liked my charm.
VIII
I never had errands about town like the rest of them mobsters and cowboys had. Like Clint Eastwood who always had to saunter across town to get a shave and a bath, and of course to shoot a few men who didn’t like the way he looked. I romanced about it, but it was never required. Not even once. It wasn’t that I was packing, but still, my cowboy boots had the romantic feeling required for such a scene, my pants were as dusty as Clint’s ever were.
I always had a lover waiting for me though. That much I did have in common. The lovers were magnetic at the worst of times. I had that sort of charm, and I hung around the right places – possibly by design. I had that loose charm and fresh stubble that fit the part. Walking stereotype.
IX
She would always come over and turn a chair backwards to chat with me a while; the rest of the joint fully satisfied. I knew she eyed up that seat the minute I walked into the joint. You could tell with these kind of girls. That nervous chatter about their bottom lip as they sat in casual cool. I always wanted to ask her if there was something more on her mind, but always told myself this dusty saloon wasn’t the place. My mind was always elsewhere anyways. I knew what I wanted.
I’d make up little scenes as my eyes would get distracted by a noise out of place. I’d watch as drunken fools would fiddle around in a stupor with their own thoughts and sadness. I’d watch as young couples would come in feeling the same romance I’d once felt in such an intimate place, sitting deep within the booths. I’d watch as businessmen would walk in with out of town clients looking for something to loosen the tie (and no doubt signature). I’d lose myself in their little romances. I’d watch them as they made little touches and laugh at small talk jokes. I always felt that my deep soul was much more conscious than theirs, staring out from the beaten corners of my favorite haunt, walnut filling my soul with history.
[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]
