Saturday, November 28, 2009
The words don't come all that easily to me. They don't arrive like lids on jars in factories. Lid on jar, pop! Lid on jar, pop! One after another. The words don't come to me like that.
But Jared calls me up one night and says he's a few blocks away and can he crash for the night. His girlfriend had another abortion; he doesn't need to talk about it. I tell him the couch is his. In fact, the couch was his - at one point. He shows up in sweatpants but we immediately shut the door behind us and go to Deity, an old church turned bar on a busy Brooklyn avenue. I like taking friends here, being amongst falsification for an hour or two, sitting twisted on dirty red leather while the real twisting of good things turned bad things prevail without my permission.
In college, we dated the same girl, so we talk about her a lot. Jill. Her roommate was also named Jill but that Jill wasn't nearly as hot as our Jill. Our Jill wore sorority letters on her ass, took bong hits between classes, gave us blow jobs during football games. But as our beer bottles empty, we find the mutual gripes with her, of which there are plenty (some real, some not so real) and then decide she was awful.
"Jill was desperate, always needing to be coddled, you know?"
"She was a fake, man. She sucked."
"Bitch was all drama."
We concoct a different girl so that we can ransack her for our liking. It feels good because we are in a church-bar drinking beer. The patterns in the stained glass bleed and swirl. Now the words can come easily just like Jill did.
Posted by Sylvie Morgan Brown at 28.11.09