Post by Steve on Oct 10, 2008 18:51:12 GMT -5
for George.
Whorehey was on the phone, looking to play pharmacist, looking to pay to deal out ovals and spheres; cylinders and lines; anything that was created within a lab with the intentions to destroy any emotion. It was a Tuesday night and it was his turn to treat.
Will and i were sitting on the couch, not speaking, all due to a correction i made while he was saying something earlier. it was of such small significance that i can’t even remember, but we were sitting there sorting through an array of purses piled from the floor to the coffee table; which appropriately had mugs of coffee resting on it. There was a pharmacology reference book on his lap and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“Sodium...benz...ih...No, wait, sodium benzi...”
ashes fell from the stick as a police siren stole our attention and placed it outside the window. It was already open. The window. I had opened it and lifted up the screen in a frenzy, thinking that i was going to vomit, and had left it gaping wide due to forgetfulness or security.
“never mind. look at the picture.”
He was pushing the book off of his lap and onto mine. in my hand were tiny pills, blue; white; peach; red, every colour that was patented by major crayon companies were there; resting coma-like in my palm. i heard the sigh that is only let out in casinos and crack-houses, in allies and bathrooms of bars. Whorehey’s voice began again, new, fresh, and i new he didn’t score with the last person he had been calling. He knew he had to talk to everyone in his address book until we let the day fall to waste. He knew damn well that it was his day to bring goods to the table, and every number he called, every voice i barely heard coming through his phone brought a new, more fierce urgency to his voice.
i felt a sickness coming and the thick familiar sound of potatoes, not quite digested, thwapping against the sidewalk filled my ears; i leaned out of the window and vomited. Pullingmy head back into the room i saw Will, standing in the doorway looking at me. He waited until i had wiped my eyes of tears and my mouth of debris then questioned the progress of Whorehey.
“i don’t think it’s going so well” i said, gargling through a throat-full of gunk.
“are you sick?” was his next question, followed by an EEEK of mind-shrinking and expansion like the fleeting weightlessness of a helium balloon. i explained i was fine, just stomach cramps, and that the probability that his hustler would have to be called was looking very high right now. No pun intended.
He left the room as Whorehey was entering saying “No dice yet”, as though he believed that a single die was considered to be called “dice” and a group of crows wasn’t a murder but a “flock” of crows. I nodded my head towards the kitchen and vomited out of the window again.
“you really got the shakes bad...you okay man?” Whorehey was constantly sincere, save the brief moments where a cell of selfishness and a molecule of an ass fused and transformed him into a dick, and at this point he was honestly questioning my health.
“I’m alright. just feel a little ‘off’ in the stomach, that’s all.” and that really was all that was wrong with me. Just my stomach, no great disaster, in fact, nothing that a little pink-chalky liquid wouldn’t help; if we had any.
“i think Will’s calling some one, he’s impatient, we both know that...” and he was. Will was impatient. I had told him to call his dude knowing that he wouldn’t want to wait on a phone call; that he’d rather wait on a cactus instead.
Whorehey was on the phone, looking to play pharmacist, looking to pay to deal out ovals and spheres; cylinders and lines; anything that was created within a lab with the intentions to destroy any emotion. It was a Tuesday night and it was his turn to treat.
Will and i were sitting on the couch, not speaking, all due to a correction i made while he was saying something earlier. it was of such small significance that i can’t even remember, but we were sitting there sorting through an array of purses piled from the floor to the coffee table; which appropriately had mugs of coffee resting on it. There was a pharmacology reference book on his lap and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“Sodium...benz...ih...No, wait, sodium benzi...”
ashes fell from the stick as a police siren stole our attention and placed it outside the window. It was already open. The window. I had opened it and lifted up the screen in a frenzy, thinking that i was going to vomit, and had left it gaping wide due to forgetfulness or security.
“never mind. look at the picture.”
He was pushing the book off of his lap and onto mine. in my hand were tiny pills, blue; white; peach; red, every colour that was patented by major crayon companies were there; resting coma-like in my palm. i heard the sigh that is only let out in casinos and crack-houses, in allies and bathrooms of bars. Whorehey’s voice began again, new, fresh, and i new he didn’t score with the last person he had been calling. He knew he had to talk to everyone in his address book until we let the day fall to waste. He knew damn well that it was his day to bring goods to the table, and every number he called, every voice i barely heard coming through his phone brought a new, more fierce urgency to his voice.
i felt a sickness coming and the thick familiar sound of potatoes, not quite digested, thwapping against the sidewalk filled my ears; i leaned out of the window and vomited. Pullingmy head back into the room i saw Will, standing in the doorway looking at me. He waited until i had wiped my eyes of tears and my mouth of debris then questioned the progress of Whorehey.
“i don’t think it’s going so well” i said, gargling through a throat-full of gunk.
“are you sick?” was his next question, followed by an EEEK of mind-shrinking and expansion like the fleeting weightlessness of a helium balloon. i explained i was fine, just stomach cramps, and that the probability that his hustler would have to be called was looking very high right now. No pun intended.
He left the room as Whorehey was entering saying “No dice yet”, as though he believed that a single die was considered to be called “dice” and a group of crows wasn’t a murder but a “flock” of crows. I nodded my head towards the kitchen and vomited out of the window again.
“you really got the shakes bad...you okay man?” Whorehey was constantly sincere, save the brief moments where a cell of selfishness and a molecule of an ass fused and transformed him into a dick, and at this point he was honestly questioning my health.
“I’m alright. just feel a little ‘off’ in the stomach, that’s all.” and that really was all that was wrong with me. Just my stomach, no great disaster, in fact, nothing that a little pink-chalky liquid wouldn’t help; if we had any.
“i think Will’s calling some one, he’s impatient, we both know that...” and he was. Will was impatient. I had told him to call his dude knowing that he wouldn’t want to wait on a phone call; that he’d rather wait on a cactus instead.