DISCLAIMER: I don't know how accepting everyone here is of explicit language, and there is a bit of that in this entry. If you're not into that so much, maybe skip this post. Otherwise, read away!
Anyways...
A Glimpse of a Tuesday Afternoon
April 24 2007
at the corner of 47th and 9th. It's two blocks west of Times Square and in the heart of the theatre district. I'm sweating, in spite of the cold wind that nips bare skin and stings the nostrils. I'm making my way to some stage, carrying a first draft of the next Broadway hit. But that's just what the pretentious playwright screamed, shrill and metallic, as I left his smugly cluttered office on the 25th floor of 357 Madison. A guy in a suit and overcoat is pushing through the throng and pinches me against the backside of magazine vendor. Jesus, man. You're not that important. You'd have a limo and driver if someone thought you were. Weaving between taxis, sneaking through pedestrians. Why the hell is it so busy? A parked car opens its door maybe five feet ahead, I push it close. My legs are whirling around and around and around but I don't think I'm getting anywhere. I swear to God I've seen that seedy deli three times now. How many of those shitholes are in this town? A clock. It's 2:13. Where is the goddamn theatre? A bus is next to me, revving its diesel. I'm pushing 30mph, adrenaline is coursing through my muscles and heightening my senses so why is he trying to push past? Bus squeezes in front of me like a fat man eying the dwindling buffet. You dumb fuck. Just run me over next time and make it easier for both of us. “Get out...of...my...way,” I yell at no one and no thing in particular. There. That's the theatre I want. Shit. I missed it. Quick left into the alley. Slip onto the sidewalk. I'm a foot taller than anyone atop the bike. Dismount. Lock the bike. Inside. I have to use the fucking freight elevator. A script is freight. It's a goddamn envelope. Script on the desk. Sign the manifest. First floor. Outside. Free the bike. Remount. I call in the drop to dispatch and hop the curb, merging smoothly with traffic. Then this shithead in a Silverado makes
*Literary device courtesy Bret Easton Ellis (well, that's who inspired it, anyway).
3 comments:
Keep it coming, Parody! "But who's counting?" is an oft-used family favorite query, so consider yourself adopted if you please!
In response to your DISCLAIMER: Once upon a time Flutterby came up a motto for DP "No Rules . . . Just Write!"
You said it Susan. "Just Write" Explicit language flows in Scrabble Wars, cause that's the real world. I don't care if it's July, you just give us some more bike stories. I'll stay out of your way and on the tow paths.
Alright. I guess I'll just keep doing whatever it is that I do :)
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