More from The Novel
He has inherited his mother’s legendary mood swings, turn on a dime, flip-flop and absolutely affect everyone around him with his intense and irritating highs, his dark and disgusting lows. One minute the life of the party, the next there is no question he must be alone. One minute there’s a handsome confident man staring back, the next some kind of monster.
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Cool tonight; unusually cool for this time of year. Maybe it’s all in his head. He’s riding the red rocket rockin’ a green t-shirt, grey Quiksilver hoody and light green Volcom cotton jacket over faded Billabong blue jeans and charcoal Converse All-Star high-tops. The clothes are important. The image is important. Appearance is everything. It is his shield, his armor. Replace the blue tights and big red ‘S’ with a name brand skater/surfer logo and an illegal substance and it’s up up and away.
Look at all the sad pathetic cattle being herded off to wherever with their silly little white headphones, barely existing in their own little musical universes, trying not to think about where they’re headed. Why can’t they just crank soothing sounds from speakers in this big steel coffin, get everybody in the same space before slitting their throats?
He looks around at all the dull faces, distracting himself by imagining what they’re all listening to - Classical for the bald dude in the cheap blue windbreaker, easy listening adult contemporary crap for the square in the basic suit and tie, metal for the fat bearded bastard in the lumberjack jacket, reggae/dub for the black chick with dreads in the pink hoody… Trendy Wendy in the long green leather coat with the double bubble lunchbox is a little tougher… some angry female alternative, maybe? Maybe Sarah MacLauchlan, maybe Tori Amos?
Amos… sounds like anus. Tori’s anus. Hahaha…
He shakes his head and looks down at his bag of records.
Nobody’s listening to House Music on this train...fools… if they only knew.
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Cool tonight; unusually cool for this time of year. Maybe it’s all in his head. He’s riding the red rocket rockin’ a green t-shirt, grey Quiksilver hoody and light green Volcom cotton jacket over faded Billabong blue jeans and charcoal Converse All-Star high-tops. The clothes are important. The image is important. Appearance is everything. It is his shield, his armor. Replace the blue tights and big red ‘S’ with a name brand skater/surfer logo and an illegal substance and it’s up up and away.
Look at all the sad pathetic cattle being herded off to wherever with their silly little white headphones, barely existing in their own little musical universes, trying not to think about where they’re headed. Why can’t they just crank soothing sounds from speakers in this big steel coffin, get everybody in the same space before slitting their throats?
He looks around at all the dull faces, distracting himself by imagining what they’re all listening to - Classical for the bald dude in the cheap blue windbreaker, easy listening adult contemporary crap for the square in the basic suit and tie, metal for the fat bearded bastard in the lumberjack jacket, reggae/dub for the black chick with dreads in the pink hoody… Trendy Wendy in the long green leather coat with the double bubble lunchbox is a little tougher… some angry female alternative, maybe? Maybe Sarah MacLauchlan, maybe Tori Amos?
Amos… sounds like anus. Tori’s anus. Hahaha…
He shakes his head and looks down at his bag of records.
Nobody’s listening to House Music on this train...fools… if they only knew.
posted by C. A. Jackson at 6:59 AM
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