Old Man In The Club

He's tired.

Unmoved by the nubile, oily, body’s writhing around him.

Doesn’t want to be there.

Envy's the dancers.

Hates the fact that he’s envious.

Should be at a different place in life.

He’ll be 50 in 6 months.

Ought not to be struggling.

Not regret trips.

Begrudge the ballers tossing thousands of $1 bills.

Everyone here makes more than him.

Every.

Single.

Person.

It’s actually life or death for him.

Puts his life on the line.

Knows he’s not worth much.

Feels worth more than the $125 he makes each night.

Isn’t even getting tips.

Probably because he is desperate.

Plus he’s been gone to long.

Reputation is old news.

Lethality isn’t as obvious.

Looks like someone’s Dad.

Has a respectable job.

Still doing security but in a suit and tie.

Guard’s an office building from 3-11. 

Easy.

After he wishes the office staff a good evening he watches movies until it’s time to leave.

Since his 'setback' he’s been running from there to the strip club.

Only short $600.

Can’t put only in front of it when you don’t have it.

Watches all the minutiae.

“Sweepers” use a garden rake to gather up currency into plastic bags.

Only workers he feels deserve their pay.

Trash bags of dollars are more than enough to pay his rent.

Would only need one.

Tells himself he just needs a boost, a spring board to get ahead.

It’s not true.

Can’t manage money for shit.

Any amount would slip through his fingers.

He could win the lottery and be broke.

Seems addicted to poverty.

Told himself 7 years ago he was done.

Before getting shot.

The sawed off shotgun blast had just been the final straw.

Body aches from his old wounds.

Tries to limit his activity at the club.

Can't lose his day job.

While the $20 hourly the Club pays is technically an increase, he works  40 hours at the Office Park, they also have benefits.

Medical.

Dental.

Life.

Vision. 

Needs those assurances as he gets older.

Time isn’t his friend 

Requires a lot more push-ups and gym hours.

Door explodes.

A celebrity he knows.

Might make rent after all.

 

Missed Signals

We were smoking marijuana together. 

Only knew her through her brother. 

Who was also on the L. 

Slow R &B is playing in the background. 

She and I are having a private conversation. 

Her brother has to be called across the room to hit the blunt. He's ignoring us.

His Girlfriend is there. 

In fact her presence is the only reason my friend and I are there. He sneaks to his sister’s house to meet up with her. 

Has a wife. 

Isn’t my business. 

I’m pretty high by this point. Conversation turns to the playlist.  

It's mine. 

At the time I was a walking talking party. 

Had music in my playlist that would be fitting at any and all events. 

Tonight it was all about the “Nasty Music” that was literally the name of the list. 

It was my go to “Panty Dropper compilation at the time. 

Don’t remember why I was playing it. 

It was working though. 

My friends sister got heavy on innuendo, that went completely over my head. Hints as she blows me a “Shotgun.” 

Our lips touch. 

Starts to throw indicators that we should change venue. 

Finally asking repeatedly if I had a specific song… “Step into my Room.”  

Literally told her I had heard of “Meeting in by Bedroom.” 

But not that one. 

Yeah. 

Missed it.

Actually looked for the song. Didn’t occur to me until I was on the Subway home. 

Called back.

It was too late. 

Her boyfriend had been invited over.  

Liquor Memorial

He's a difficult man to deal with.

Not easily approachable.

 Quick to anger, sharp tongue, acerbic wit, he can't help but be insulting, it's literally all he knows.

How he’s wired.

This particular day the downstairs neighbor is having it out with one of the neighborhood teenagers. “Boy is I’m fucking with you? Seriously am I fucking with you? Then why the fuck is you fucking with me?”

I don't have a dog in this fight.

 Teenage boy is a piece of shit too.

Lives three doors down, downstairs.

Think his mother is maybe 12 or 13 years older than him.

She has the maternal instinct of a Shark.

The loud neighbor is maybe in his mid fifties.

Around here I am the closest to him in age in the complex.

 Should probably be his friend but I'm not.

Don’t care for people very much.

Guess I'm what you'd call an introvert.

Growing up with a preacher Daddy I learned scripture real quick.

There’s a scripture in Proverbs that says “ A man breaking up fight is like grabbing the ear of a dog.” That might not be an exact quote, but, I don’t care to be bit by the dogs these young dudes carry.

 The old man is going to get himself killed.

Toss my cigarette butt over the banister, step back inside my apartment.

My apartment is nice.

Not on the outside.

On the outside it’s a piece of shit and I’m embarrassed to have people over.

It’s the best my pension will pay for.

Inside, I have created the space I feel like I deserve.

Spend some of the extra I squirreled away.

Huge mirrors.

Exquisite furniture.

Unique accessories.

One of a kind art works.

Like an island in the middle of the ghetto.

Every time I step outside my door I’m armed.

Got the pocket rocket on me right now.

Raised voices make me nervous.

Another story for another day.

I’m kind of suspicious.

Been hurt and disappointed a lot.

Sit in my throne chair.

It’s hot.

Really funky.

Mack mouth, a buddy from the Corp, took me to the flea market, I got it there.

100% recycled materials.

Looks like a real throne.

Comfortable to my bad back.

Noise outside is getting under my skin.

Reminds me of Kandahar.

Turn up my music.

Block out everything.

Memories flood in.

Lives I’ve taken.

See their eyes.

Hear the cries of the dying.

Get a fresh bottle of Southern Comfort.

Drown out the voices, pain, evil recollections.

By the time I am halfway through the bottle I fall into oblivion.