It was as if the sun had given birth to clouds.
It was as if the sun had given birth to clouds.
“Well, that’s what this is about. I refuse to talk about it any further. I just wanted to know your answer to those questions.”
Jason got up and left the table in a rage—leaving Brady to pay the check. Brady was, once again, dumfounded. Jason usually lacked the wisdom to say meaningful things, if this had any meaning at all. Even more surprising was that he was not on a conquest for money; Brady had been convinced that Jason’s motives were monetary. Brady, took one last bite of his danish, a final swig of coffee, and paid the check.
His coffee and Danish were brought to the table. The Danish was kind of stale and the coffee was too light; he ate them anyway. He gave up on the coffee after the fourth sip. A few minutes later, his brother Jason walked in. Brady got up and motioned for a hug, but Jason refused coldly, and sat down across from Brady.
As he walked up to the counter, Brady took notice of the “give a penny, take a penny” dish. He always felt guilty if he didn’t put a penny in the tray; almost paranoid—as if some man who was short one cent of buying a roll of breath mints would knock on his door and question his morals. It was moments like these in which Brady was reminded of his father. Joe Palmer approached everything with reason, rather than instinct or impulse; but ironically, had many superstitions. Brady asked the man at the counter for a pack of Marlboro Lights, then dug out a crumpled five dollar bill from his pocket. The change was 47 cents. Brady put all seven of the pennies in the tray. Good; this would promise him good karma in the future. Brady laughed out loud at his thoughts as he walked outside—he did not believe in karma.
While walking away from the gas station, Brady glanced at his reflection in a puddle. His head was generously garnished with gray hairs. He didn’t mind; there was no one for Brady to look youthful and attractive for. Brady had only been in love once; Susan Sanders—and that was a long time ago. Frustrated with his inability to communicate and show emotion, Susan left Brady for their former High School quaterback. Brady didn’t need her anyway, he didn’t need anyone or anything.
Lost in thought, Brady was awakened the sobering sound of a car crash occuring several yards away.
Brady laughed. He knew he and his father were almost nothing alike. Joe Palmer had a sense of duty; Brady questioned everything. From the start, Brady was a Nihilist. He wasn’t lazy, but he certainly lacked motivation. Brady never pushed himself to do anything. His parents, frustrated with his indifference to rules and moral structure, punished him frequently. Brady would be banished to his room—which was where he wanted to be anyway.
Brady picked up the newspaper and flipped to the classifieds section. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. In fact, he loathed shopping and material possessions in general. Brady liked to see what people were selling—things that were once cherished, but no longer have a use to their owner. Items once purchased with eagerness, but now sitting in a duct-taped, cardboard box in someone’s garage—awaiting the day when they will be exchanged for cash in the least intimate, anonymous fashion. Brady felt compassion for the items bought and sold—he felt their loneliness and rejection. This was why he did not own many things. His apartment was bare. Other than groceries and household essentials; Brady posessed only a worn arm chair in front of his TV, a bookcase full of literature, and a few personal knick knacks on a shelf. That was it. It was not that he was unable to afford many possessions, but that he had no desire for them. Brady was an avid reader. He read everything; the labels on food products, billboards, fine print in magazine ads, bumper stickers, and any words his eyes met. Ironically, seldom did Brady read anything that he found to be meaningful. Brady had no real interests, and no real passions. He saw no point in having a purpose, and lacked principles to live by. In this way, people saw Brady Palmer as a dull person.
Brady was craving some toast, which reminded him that he needed to meet his co-worker at “La Mort D’amour” in 20 minutes. He threw on some couderoy pants and a big brown sweater and locked the door. On the way out, Brady’s landlord stopped him to inquire about his rent which was a few days late.
It had been a particularly uneventful morning at the Palmer residence on July 4th. Brady Palmer had just finished his breakfast and was about to move on to his second cup of coffee. Brady was very particular about his coffee—he liked it to be the color of his skin tone, which was a pale shade of butterscotch. This was in direct contrast to his father, who did not care one bit how his coffee was made. To him, it all tasted the same. When Mr. Palmer ordered coffee at the local diner, he would tell the waitress’, “surprise me.” Sometimes she’d bring him black coffee; sometimes light coffee. Sometimes it had sugar; sometimes it didn’t. Most of the time, the waitress would get frustrated and bring him black coffee with milk and sugar on the side—to flavor the coffee to his liking. When it came to coffee, Joe Palmer was not picky. However, this was not his nature; Brady’s father was very opinionated and strict. Having served and fought as a Sergeant in Vietnam, he’d lost most of his sensitivity toward others. Joe Palmer had seen the worst side of mankind and lived through it. Though he smiled often, it was just a mask—you could see the emptiness in his eyes. Joe became detached and took up drinking—which ultimately led him to his grave six years ago.
The phone rang; Brady didn’t feel like answering. It was probably just his landlord reminding him that his rent was late. After the third ring, he picked up—remembering that he was expecting a call from his brother, Jason. It wasn’t him.
Six years in the making and ive deemed it unsalvagable.
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I have no home, I have no family. Each day is a series of redundancies. This account has been documented in the passage below, entitled “Father Waffles:”
12 o’clock, put on a sweater. Scotch tape soviet, hole in my pocket. For years I’ve been dreaming of odd places, intimacy, flight, and death.
One minute was all it took, and the discrepancies only became more visible with each prefix prescribed to the wasted days of one’s past; ultimately a reflection of the cycle. Foreshadowed in his/her own space, sinister delinquent thoughts evade the self—plagued by the opacity of dreams. It manifests—makes itself known; like a feather dusting the shadows off a shelf in space and time. Feather dreams and whistles, weary from old age and it stretched from sea to shining sea—across the fields and dark alleyways; suddenly vanquished. Like a love letter, festering. Inhalation of ancient factory fumes projecting thoughts through our everyday desires. Damaged goods, awaiting their danger which looms in a velocity overhead, sacred seminar sergeants washed away like a box of marbles. Reluctantly updated with hopes to be fastened to stairways of the future—super-dooper, but don’t forget to cover your cough. The real deal: approaching like a rhino in a Cadillac—full speed, head on collision; doubtful that any limb has been left un-amputated. Architects who designed this building used food as a metaphor. Let me explain: we all have different names. It was designed on an empty stomach full of neat-o, why not, religious motivations. God made man and man made the Xerox machine. What conclusion can be drawn? Well, when one considered tulips as a form of currency, it’s clear: disco will never die. But why even ask the question? It’s imported to learn about installing drywall so that history does not repeat like a skipping record in a jukebox in a diner in a box on a shelf surrounded by daylight and cursed with blessing of the same day delivery deli meat bomb squad saturated fat gluten-free tire-rotation dogs barking. The first step, and this is the most important step—for it is important to learn about installing drywall so that history does not repeat like a skipping record in a jukebox in a diner in a box on a shelf surrounded by daylight and cursed with blessing of the same day delivery deli meat bomb squad saturated fat gluten-free tire-rotation dogs barking. Anyway, the first step—and maybe the last step, I’m not too sure, but certainly nothing that couldn’t be learned from a book. Stop at your local Library on the way home from your destiny child-like do-gooder daycare doormat material things on a stick to it Darfur handbag grape soda the number eight daytrip. It’s all about you; the power is in your something hands. Tomorrow is Wednesday and there’s no hearing aid time to ditch-digger lose. Instantaneous hyphens of tomorrow can be at your doorstep today, with time to spare change loose ends tied up in knots like a pretzel off a truck last night down a winding path in my shoe, your shoe is untied sir/mayhem. Pay it forward and you will yield crops. United specifics of American wristwatch, I pledge allegiance to Brillo pad, and the united marsupials of a skipping record in a jukebox in a diner in a box on a shelf surrounded by daylight and cursed with blessing of the same day delivery deli meat bomb squad saturated fat gluten-free tire-rotation dogs barking up the wrong tree in a rainforest on a boat in the rock and roll hall of it’s a shame that my doorbell is broken record of an incident under the bed there’s monsters, I’m afraid. Daydreams of a better bacon, with no island of misfit toys to torture the Darwin of our dimensions; forever entangled in the spaghetti-like moments which crust over the rivers of our doomed fingernail inscriptions of life which we document on a field-trip and such as if it could fly with spoon wings and fork beaks over the bean lake and baseball cap mountains and it will never be over until the fat lady can sing the roll-on deodorant out of our photographic memory of a florescent fabric of time in these days where coffee-stained cerebral mustache can withstand a punch to the gut next to life’s lemonade stand; barely audible over the sound of the paper—flowing downstream like a salmon colored nail polish nightmare of fresh kicks to the head and cool green symposiums of our soul contain the ultimate truth which can be determined through a swift kick to the groin and the motion which follows is but only the manifestation of what we cannot forget, and the first step—by far the easiest step; requiring no previous knowledge of history which tends to repeat itself like a skipping record in a jukebox in a diner on a train to Manhattan and whatnot—but where’s the breadline Excedrin elevator dorm-room draught of the time when I was young with my cowboy boots—I had two pairs, both were black but one had red embroidery and one blue in the face from holding breaths of air in our lungs like a camel holding water for a trip to the Sahara Sunday night then sleeping on the couch which tends to be covered in cat hair like the dandruff which coats our imaginations like glue and glitter on a building, you need your rest like you need a swift kick to the Lisa Frank. How you’ve grown. Word is a substitution for a dice game, apple doesn’t fall very far from the quicker-picker-upper, and I’m not talking dance about the leopard time you dichotomy fell down the incest stairs. Utter my last words like a fountain spewing dirt.