(Girl at Tosca Party) It was three o'clock on a Sunday morning. It was hot and he couldn't sleep even with the windows open. Something's missing", he thought, "something's always missing." So he took off his t-shirt and his underwear and wrapped his left leg around the wet sheet, tugged at it, pulled at it and held it tight against his chest like a little kid afraid of the dark. He laid there staring at the ceiling and the chipped paint. Then he looked at the doors and the walls and the carpet and started counting things he saw in the garbage can. The light was still on in the room; he guessed he left the light on when he went to bed and the TV, too....that was still on, but running quietly. He didn't know where the TV remote control was; it was missing, too. He thought it might be under the bed, or in the bed lost in the sheets, or inside the pillows. In fact, things were deliberately made to appear to be missing, appearing to be seldom sufficient, hardly adequate and never enough. So he sat up in bed and got drunk and scribbled "WANT" on his chest with a black magick marker so that no matter what else was missing, no one could doubt his sincerity. (Untitled)
(Paint on a Wall) Conceited and cynical, he ignored criticism accusing him of exaggerating his importance. Personal ambition was just another thing missing. To escape his fantasies, he withdrew to an isolated point of view and made demands on the privileged few who never showed respect for everyday things; deceit was concealed from him by his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked at the TV and watched the show for a few minutes. It was some kind of religious fund raiser (aren't they all?) It was a advertisement for gym equipment for Jesus, like "get in shape for Jesus", "the lord is returning for his bride and he wants his church to be in shape", and "be hot and look good!" This made him want to be a writer in the worst way, so he called in to make a pledge for some money so he could learn the Christian poet's mystical language whose mathematical ideologies, like his own, were stolen from jazz musicians playing out of tune, struggling to keep up with drummers on speed always one or two songs ahead of everyone else. Jazz was missing from the bad side of his mind, missing more or less the same today as it was the day before. On weekends we'd watch him perform; we'd hang around and drink. His condition got worse as time went on, spitting out stupid words, spitting out of control. (Breadshop in Chinatown)
(Breadshop with Reflections) He decided he had to go to the bathroom but he forgot where he put the room key. He had to piss really bad and almost used the sink but at the last minute he saw the key on the floor under the bed next to the remote. He grabbed both of them, slipped on his robe, put the remote in one of the pockets and opened, unlocked and locked the door behind him. It was so very quiet out in the hallway, dark, gloomy, cold and empty it reminded him how he once produced an artsy noir film about a transsexual circus clown cleaning bathroom floors with only a toothbrush. According to the "true" story, a Christian cult popular among marines outside a base near San Diego, California, called the Guardians of the Missing Order of the Thorny Rose, apparently descended from heaven and made hell on earth their home. On their way from there to here, they left something missing, something tasteless, colorless, and odorless and this was known as the Crypt of the Missing Broken Straw Man, Indian chief of all the Dead Eagles. But memories or not, it didn't matter; he still had to go to the bathroom really bad now, even worse than before, so he opened the door to the final sacrifice and became the first man to burn the sign of the cross on the frozen earth! (Mail)
(Untitled) In a hurry to piss, he tip-toed to the bathroom down the hallway and while he hurried he heard noises from the rooms. He heard the TV, people talking, the radio, snoring and he heard a man and woman doing something sexual. It sounded like one of them was slapping the other one with a belt, playing sex games. It must not have been going too well because he heard the woman ask the guy to take a break. By now he was finally in the bathroom. He opened the door and felt the cold air coming in from the other side of the building, ripping through the holes in his robe. He opened his robe just enough to get a grip and he took a long hot satisfying steamy piss. When he was done he turned off the light, opened and closed the door and started down the hall. The couple was at it again, but this time she was hitting him, at least that's what it sounded like. He was whimpering like a baby, she was laughing. He stopped and stood by their door for a few minutes, looking up and down to make sure nobody else came down the hall. He was getting bored and nervous so he hurried to his room, unlocked the door, opened it, closed it, put the key on the desk and threw the TV remote on the bed. (North Beach Hotel)
(Old Phone Booth) There was a TV show on. It was some interview with a kid hooked on speed. The message of the show was unclear, but its meaning was unavoidable. He sat up on the edge of the bed to listen and play with his toes. His cell phone was plugged in to get the battery charged up but the timing on the clock was all wrong. It was between four and four-thirty AM. He sat there on the edge of the bed with his robe opened, pulled down over his shoulders, slowly falling off his shoulders and falling to the bed and then sliding off the bed onto the floor. It was still too hot to sleep and since he had been swallowing copious amounts of hard drugs for the last several hours, he had severely and irrevocably damaged his capacity for pleasure, including sex. He decided to go next door and get some hot coffee. All he needed was $1.60 so he counted his change and found about $4.00, got dressed, put on his coat and scarf and boots and got his key and went down the hallway for something to eat and the coffee. Unfortunately, his brain had been so badly compromised on his way to the elevator, to the downstairs lobby and to the sidewalk outside, that he went from one flirtatious meaningless love-game to another ten times worse than the one before. He opened the elevator and said "hi" to the girl receptionist downstairs at the front desk and she said "hi" back to him and smiled. He put his hands in his pockets anticipating a cold wind to hit him. He knew his bank account was empty, but he hoped that later on, in a few minutes, when he came back with the coffee – one for him and one for her – he was hoping that he could make up for the sleepless nights when nothing mattered. But the missing things he left in his room could not explain to her why he lived in a dumpster, and why he registered at her hotel with the last few dollars he had. He didn't have any answers. (The Garden of Eden)
(Paint on a Wall) Conceited and cynical, he ignored criticism accusing him of exaggerating his importance. Personal ambition was just another thing missing. To escape his fantasies, he withdrew to an isolated point of view and made demands on the privileged few who never showed respect for everyday things; deceit was concealed from him by his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked at the TV and watched the show for a few minutes. It was some kind of religious fund raiser (aren't they all?) It was a advertisement for gym equipment for Jesus, like "get in shape for Jesus", "the lord is returning for his bride and he wants his church to be in shape", and "be hot and look good!" This made him want to be a writer in the worst way, so he called in to make a pledge for some money so he could learn the Christian poet's mystical language whose mathematical ideologies, like his own, were stolen from jazz musicians playing out of tune, struggling to keep up with drummers on speed always one or two songs ahead of everyone else. Jazz was missing from the bad side of his mind, missing more or less the same today as it was the day before. On weekends we'd watch him perform; we'd hang around and drink. His condition got worse as time went on, spitting out stupid words, spitting out of control. (Breadshop in Chinatown)
(Breadshop with Reflections) He decided he had to go to the bathroom but he forgot where he put the room key. He had to piss really bad and almost used the sink but at the last minute he saw the key on the floor under the bed next to the remote. He grabbed both of them, slipped on his robe, put the remote in one of the pockets and opened, unlocked and locked the door behind him. It was so very quiet out in the hallway, dark, gloomy, cold and empty it reminded him how he once produced an artsy noir film about a transsexual circus clown cleaning bathroom floors with only a toothbrush. According to the "true" story, a Christian cult popular among marines outside a base near San Diego, California, called the Guardians of the Missing Order of the Thorny Rose, apparently descended from heaven and made hell on earth their home. On their way from there to here, they left something missing, something tasteless, colorless, and odorless and this was known as the Crypt of the Missing Broken Straw Man, Indian chief of all the Dead Eagles. But memories or not, it didn't matter; he still had to go to the bathroom really bad now, even worse than before, so he opened the door to the final sacrifice and became the first man to burn the sign of the cross on the frozen earth! (Mail)
(Untitled) In a hurry to piss, he tip-toed to the bathroom down the hallway and while he hurried he heard noises from the rooms. He heard the TV, people talking, the radio, snoring and he heard a man and woman doing something sexual. It sounded like one of them was slapping the other one with a belt, playing sex games. It must not have been going too well because he heard the woman ask the guy to take a break. By now he was finally in the bathroom. He opened the door and felt the cold air coming in from the other side of the building, ripping through the holes in his robe. He opened his robe just enough to get a grip and he took a long hot satisfying steamy piss. When he was done he turned off the light, opened and closed the door and started down the hall. The couple was at it again, but this time she was hitting him, at least that's what it sounded like. He was whimpering like a baby, she was laughing. He stopped and stood by their door for a few minutes, looking up and down to make sure nobody else came down the hall. He was getting bored and nervous so he hurried to his room, unlocked the door, opened it, closed it, put the key on the desk and threw the TV remote on the bed. (North Beach Hotel)
(Old Phone Booth) There was a TV show on. It was some interview with a kid hooked on speed. The message of the show was unclear, but its meaning was unavoidable. He sat up on the edge of the bed to listen and play with his toes. His cell phone was plugged in to get the battery charged up but the timing on the clock was all wrong. It was between four and four-thirty AM. He sat there on the edge of the bed with his robe opened, pulled down over his shoulders, slowly falling off his shoulders and falling to the bed and then sliding off the bed onto the floor. It was still too hot to sleep and since he had been swallowing copious amounts of hard drugs for the last several hours, he had severely and irrevocably damaged his capacity for pleasure, including sex. He decided to go next door and get some hot coffee. All he needed was $1.60 so he counted his change and found about $4.00, got dressed, put on his coat and scarf and boots and got his key and went down the hallway for something to eat and the coffee. Unfortunately, his brain had been so badly compromised on his way to the elevator, to the downstairs lobby and to the sidewalk outside, that he went from one flirtatious meaningless love-game to another ten times worse than the one before. He opened the elevator and said "hi" to the girl receptionist downstairs at the front desk and she said "hi" back to him and smiled. He put his hands in his pockets anticipating a cold wind to hit him. He knew his bank account was empty, but he hoped that later on, in a few minutes, when he came back with the coffee – one for him and one for her – he was hoping that he could make up for the sleepless nights when nothing mattered. But the missing things he left in his room could not explain to her why he lived in a dumpster, and why he registered at her hotel with the last few dollars he had. He didn't have any answers. (The Garden of Eden)
