I Can’t Get Started February 23, 2016Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
No going back to sleep for the Insomnimaniac. It’s just going to be one of those days. Time for a slouchy hat, brim snapped low, and to pick up a pack of smokes. Where can I get Chesterfields? [Cough]. Gotta put a quick spit shine on my shoes, find my cleanest shirt and squint out into the painful sunshine of another instant coffee day in the city of broken sidewalks.
First, slink over to the bank, the teller lines snaking around the slumped customers in chairs that would shame a bus station, all waiting for some good word that will not come. Sign my name, wait my turn, close out the big account, and shake the dust of Downtown off my shoes as I walk out the door. Take that fat check somewhere people smile and remember my name.
Lunch. Fuck doctors. I want it medium rare on a soft white bun. Ketchup yessir mister and mustard you bet. A nice sour pickle to suit my mood, and a draft beer with a famous shame. If you’re looking for me, ask Otis. He knows where I slink to drink when afternoon’s a thunderstorm and my raincoat’s at home. Somewhere in Metairie where no one knows me, there’s an ashtray on my table, and the kitchen smells like last night but tastes like Kansas City.
Tonight when the shit storm is blowing outside: whiskey, Prez and Lady Day, a broad brush sadness that brings a smile to dump the cigarette ash on your pants. Well, fuck. Laundry tomorrow.