excerpts from but for how long, and why?
When are you gonna go, Sally? When are you gonna go? You should go, I’d love it if you did. When are you gonna go? Sally. I’m going.
The rain is falling, lightly, yet everything is wet. Slowly moving downtown, having just crossed the library and planning to just continue down 5th Avenue till I get home. Christmas always ends like this, and it has gotten worse since Sally decided to stay around. Crossing 42nd, and tripping over a drunk. Another one, wet, sad. His clothes are dark, as dark as the tarmac, his bed. His feet are sprawled onto the street, covering the heavy paint on the ground that marks crossing. I know his legs are going to get crushed, yet in stead if waking him up, helping him, I walk faster, hoping I won’t be there and that I won’t have to call the ambulance. I keep walking, the rain keeps raining, fat. Down by Madison Square Park, more people, homeless. Jesus, it’s after midnight, Christmas Eve, shouldn’t these people be at the soup kitchens or the YMCA? Everything is sad, I’m not depressed, but things look and feel sad. Now coming onto Park, almost home except it doesn’t feel like home. Shouldn’t it feel like home? Is it home if it doesn’t feel like it? Many questions. Taking the elevator to the 5th floor, taking off shoes, making coffee? Why coffee? Don’t wanna sleep? Whatcha gonna do then? Huh?
This thing feels dirty, but it always does. That’s the charm, and it’s the way I like it. The grande mirror next to the window shows a young man, I guess, medium height, medium build. Besides a green robe he is wearing nothing and I realize that I am just looking at my naked body. It’s been while since I’ve just looked at me, and I look bland. My body is too young, for my age, too unused, too inexperienced. I need scars. Emotional scars that can be seen on my body. Something painful that I’ll love. Starting to freak myself out, making another cup of coffee, I spot the napkin from tonight’s dinner, the one I’ve been clutching for, what? hours? Not days. On it is scrawled, in my beautiful handwriting, when are you gonna go sally? and that is when I decide to go. It doesn’t matter where and that’s the beauty of it. It. Is. Simple. Fuck. Go.
The decrepit clock my sister gave me after her post-grad trip to the Netherlands tells me it is just past 3 am when I decide to head out. I leave my phone behind, bringing only a finely crafted black suitcase, and the suit I am wearing. Am I gonna go, I am gonna go in style. The cab driver nods and starts driving, the sign on the back of his seat informs me that the standard fee from JFK and into the city is $45, but the journey to JFk could be anywhere from $30 to $80, and I am glad that I have chosen very early Christmas morning to make my departure. I have told no one, and I don’t care. That’s the way you do it, Sally. I’m gonna do this to show you how to do it.
…
The scent of food reaches me, and I notice that the area we’re in looks a bit more residential than what came before. The driver steers the cab around a massive corner and makes a fast stop at what looks like a low steel fence. He turns and gives me the eyes, while flexing his little hand towards me. When he sees my quizzical expression, he leans out the window and points a finger. I look out the side of the car and, sure enough, he is pointing at a sign saying ‘Khao San Rd.’ I smile my gratitude and give him the ten dollar bill. When I make to get out of the car he pulls me gently back in, slapping the ten dollar bill the palm of his hand, creating a pathetic wet tic-tac sound. He is begging me to notice the sad way he is treating the bill, obviously telling me that I am not paying him enough. I smile, laugh, pat him on the shoulder again, and tell him, “a deals a deal.” I get out, make my way to the back of the car to get my suitcase, and slam the hood of the trunk tight again. Thats when I hear loud yapping and complaining close to me, and before I know it the driver is thrusting the ten dollar bill into my hands and waiving people down. Looking around, I can see that a small crowd is gathering. Fuck this, I’m thinking, but then I see the cop approaching. He looks no more than my age, completely lean, skinnier than most western girls. He looks like a knife. I am clutching my suitcase while the cop engages the driver in conversation. I reach out my hand, motioning to give the driver the money, shrugging my shoulders to show that I don’t know the reason for this scene, and that I have only good intentions and want to pay the fucking driver. The cop looks at me and gives me an order. In Thai, of course. I give him my best and most bewildered look, and without thinking and with a swift move I press the ten dollar bill into the cop’s hand. He gives me a stern look, then turns and twists the driver’s arm. Before the cop has even said a word to the driver a man off the street jumps into the cab and drives away, scattering the crowd. I am standing in the same place, still clutching my suitcase, watching the cop putting strips around the driver’s wrists and strapping him on to the back of a scooter. Fuck. Everybody has seemingly lost interest in me again. Everyone except for three girls standing, or rather leaning, on the steel rails I mistook for a fence some minutes ago.
…
Working title.
The editor is familiar with author’s real name.
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