I’m an aging cameraman
Wishing to bore you while he can,
By speaking of himself here in a rhyme.
I’ll tell of my career,
That has gone on year by year
From monochrome until the present time.
Month: October 2017
I’m an aging cameraman
Amanda steps on the clutch and drops her hand to the gear lever, shifting up to fifth as the freeway straightens out. Surrounding her is an ocean of nodding yellow wheat with an asphalt ribbon running through it. Heading towards her on the other side of the road is an older style S class Mercedes. She recognises the shape. As it rolls closer she’s compelled, as always, to look. She studies the driver in quick glances. A hint of familiarity in the curve of his nose and the heavy shoulders quickens her pulse, but the glasses are wrong. Her gaze flicks back to the road ahead. It wasn’t him. It never is.
I missed the train – I wasn’t even close. I was still ambling through the carpark trying to wake up when I heard the station announcer caution its departure, and I didn’t even think about running for it. So it left. Without me.
For first time in his overly long period spent as a high school student, Peter did what his teacher told him to do. True, those words were “Run, goddammit, ru..arrrggghhhh, crack, squelch, arrrgggghhhhh, slpat!” but there was a first time for everything and as he sprinted down the hall behind the rest of his class, Peter just knew that Mr Blowers, his now partially deceased biology teacher, would have died happy knowing he’d finally gotten through to his most recalcitrant student.
Sitting on the floor of the kitchen, Alex nursed the dregs of the third breakfast vodka. This was the last one of the morning, more because there was no vodka left in the apartment rather than any real desire to stop at just three. At least the pretence of being a fancy Bloody Mary imbiber had fallen away once the celery gone limp in the fridge. It was just vodka neat after that for the last few weeks to get prepared for the outside world. Gently swirling the glass, the final sip coating the inside, running back down in rivulets to coalesce in the bottom, dragging out that final hit, that final kick. Swirling, watching the patterns, the forms that the vodka made, looking like water, but just that bit different from water that there was no fooling. Alex slowly got lost in those patterns, those swirls, that alcohol.
A frown creased the pallid cashier’s forehead. He arched an eyebrow at the man standing in front of him. The man glared back, his eyes glowing like hot embers, a wisp of blue smoke trailing upwards from the top of his head.