The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia - 1
Wednesday, July 3, 3:47 P.M.
This is the first segment of the novella: The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia
Wednesday, July 3, 3:47 P.M.
When I was a kid, AIDS would kill you. You can’t depend on anything no more. In this void, something must be reliable.
AIDS is small now. I know that’s good, and I should be ashamed of thinking about it. I am sorry. I worry too much.
I read once that we were just animals that crawled out from the sea.
It’s getting hotter in here, and I need to get somewhere, but my laptop’s charged, and I need to kill some time.
They told me I was born in a Porta-Potty at a Moby Grape show. That was funny to them. I want to spear them with a ram’s horn.
They told me some good stuff, too, like how it’s easier to suffer a couple of yards back than with people around. That’s good advice for a kid.
They said I was lazy. I am, of course. Always looking for the easy way. I accept the suffering that comes with the tack, but I see and feel. They didn’t give me that. That’s all me.
I’ve always been back behind and away. That’s how I see things. I read too. They hated that.
We’re in between something. I don’t know what. It’s some Dark Age, now.
I have internet access. All the world’s knowledge. Anything you want to know. Like a plot to one of those old gyne-in-bottle movies. But people want fun, and it hurts. I see what they watch.
I heard a song on the radio; this is years back. It was good and I went to the computer to hear it. I’ve been watching it ever since. And I’ll watch it again because, as I said, I have to be somewhere and have the time to kill.
I writhe, hungover, staring at my off-white walls, the nothing in my apartment. I’ve gotten used to this. It’s my only friend. For years, nothing got loved. I felt sad when I lost all interest in the heavy metal drums and nothing has replaced it. But I feel like I’m closer to a proxy, so, I take a chance, and with true purpose, I click play.
She has big new lips. She has thick hair. So beautiful. I fall in love, again. She’s all the lost girls I knew.
Her knees are to her chest, and I believe now, after over a decade of watching her, that she wants to hide.
Then the bells. Bong-bong-bong. We’re off to church. Harps strum. The tape is grainy; I forgot to say that. Then out of nowhere, young hipster kids ride mopeds down a treelined Tuscan road. And then (I hate them) these dudes jump into an autumn swimming pool as the harps continue. Everyone is thin and beautiful, and alive. Everyone had a great summer.
An American flag flaps in California.
I was young once, but not in California.
I knew swimming pools, but was never comfortable in them, not like these kids.
They’re thin and intelligent. They’re drinking but not fat. I know they do the funniest drugs. I watch, and it is all right there, within my reach. All that joy, is right there for the taking.
I look up. “No good, no good,” I say. A broken window, cans of everything, bottles of sesame seed oil, and rotted expired olives.
Let’s keep going. We’re only sixteen seconds in. I want to bend her to me. I unpause.
An old cartoon. Silhouettes in front of golden conductor music. From the Hollywood Bowl, perhaps?
Now a sign for the Chateau Marmont. The minx looks right at the camera, a tight yellow thing with her back to a whitewashed wall. Her eyes and lips knowing and big. She begins to do her throaty thing through those lips. Oh, god.
Whistling my name.
A time-lapse flower blooms and an awful hipster does a backflip off a swing.
I look up at a broken window, then back down at my cigarette. I can’t stop now. I unpause.
They plunge into the deep cool pools. Now we’re on the Sunset Strip.
(I have no friends.)
She is so beautiful it almost…
Back to the cartoon and more golden music and a sign, again, for the Chateau Marmont. California! Hollywood! Yes, yes!
She’s now in a tight yellow thing and she peers at me, her back, again to that whitewashed wall. Her eyes know something. She sings, throaty through those lips. Oh, god, sublime! Yes, yes.
Then a drunken woman stumbles in a gold dress with limos all around. She’s being led to them. 86ed and drunk. Flash bulbs burst. Through those lips: Take that body downtown.
I can’t stop watching. This has gone on for eleven years. I can’t stop clicking play.
Back on Sunset, we pass a massive iPod (that’s how long this has been intruding on me) billboard. On it, a girl leans back with a big smile, grooving inside headphones. More super cool kids. One does a backflip, and now the fuckers are skateboarding.
Then the voice:
You the bestest. Lean in for a big kiss.
I pause and take a pull. I need to get somewhere, but I have bars and battery, and I need to kill the time.
This is the first segment of a novella. Please follow the timestamps.