aaron_the fall of america_chapter_06

Chapter 6

I'm back in my apartment, except for my body that I haven't located so far. It is a hot and humid day in my little hell cell. The just off some kind of non-colour, pale walls are damp. The grungy bug spotted ceiling is flaking. The grimy brown rug is slimy. It is another day of frustration, boredom and loneliness. I had several showers to try to ease the discomfort.

I remember a day at work.

"Nice day for a walk," Johnson said as we all filed back into the dim den after our short break where we were permitted to smell the fresh exhaust fumes of the outside.

"Nice day to fuck a goat up the ass," I answered without consideration.

Joanna was a bit concerned about my unreasonable response. All others accepted my foul response as probable. I thought she was sweet and attractive. I wondered if she was someone I knew a long time ago. Possibly, it was so long ago that it was a previous life. Joanna is married to a black man. She is white. In Toronto it's not a problem. At least not as much as it is in Florida. They can't go to Florida to visit her relatives, not because the relatives have a problem with his colour but because in Florida, as in many southern states, there are packs of red necked Neanderthals who do their reasoning with the mind capacity of a caged chicken that has never seen natural light.

Florida. I think I moved to Florida. Why would I do that? I never wanted to live there. Did I change my mind? Did someone change it for me? Shit! I might be lying in a swamp with a bullet in my head.

Achilles.

Who are the Achilles. Why am I suddenly angry.
Brian sent me a letter.

He included part of his sister's letter she had written to him. She had deliberated over the absurdity of people killing each other over confused ideologies then erecting cenotaphs to congratulate themselves for their expertise in murdering more of the enemy than the enemy had murdered of them.

Face down in the gutter, one doesn't have to see the empty sky above.



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by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project