I’m a consummate flavor of the month. Say what they will about me, I have a way of arousing curiosity. Chalk it up to how I keep my mouth shut and tendency to stare into the distance, perpetrating something resembling a soul, when all that it comes down to is wondering what that street corner has to say about its day. I arouse curiosity. Puzzle box. An empty headline wrapped in the left-half of a newspaper. But after the fact, when it turns out there’s nothing else I’m able to arouse, and curiosity is the only thing capable of satisfying, they pay the check and move on. Isn’t always a bad game. Teaches you to enjoy naked moments while they last, preparation for departure. Flavor of the month can last as little as a month, two, never more than six in my experience. The numbers that dominate scoreboards create a light bulb blur. But once someone understands, figures out there’s nothing to figure out, then there’s nothing left to say. Reach for a wish, listen to cat scratches against a screened window. Take comfort in consistency. Don’t imagine there could be anything more beyond passing interest. Bad gambling on the green felt, envious of myself, up one instant, down come the next flip, pair of rags; the secret is a quick fold, though time and again, I have hoped. Unfortunate moments where I open the door and welcomed them in. Gave them a tour. They sit and listen by the lampshade glow, maybe have a cigarette when it suits them, then recognize something.

And when the bus came to an abrupt halt, I woke up from a dream can’t say I remember letting in. Assaulted detail on all sides. Eyeball pressed so close to the window that smears of six am got rerouted. Senses undead. Sniffing, smelling the scent of a cheap bottle of white. The rattle of a drum roll. Not even possible for such a sound on a Greyhound ride, and it only got louder. Detached my retina, glanced down. Felt moist stains up along my shirt, all down my tired jeans.  Saw an empty bottle of cheap white, rolling past tattered loafers. Rolling fast, fast tracking to the front, nostrils just beginning to fill with vinegar, stale wine stolen from that room in Greensboro. Driver barking current destination. North Carolina, Verona Stop. Cheap duffels sliding from the overhead. Unconscious grunts and shuffles. Skin on fire. Hoisting my book bag, joining the rest. Stepping out into October cold, cracked lot of a tire emporium, what passed for a bus station back in those days.

The driver asked, me, boy, was you the one drinking on this ride?

            I replied in Spanish, long enough to get him disgusted, annoyed, waving me along.

I hoofed it over to Elva’s dinner, lavender sky, asked for a counter seat. Got ushered along with a laminated menu and a strange look. Typical look, if we’re feeling like playing favorites. I stared at the words for a bit, figured now was a good a time as anyway to learn.

Korben slid up to me, surprised to see me so early. Let all the other details slide, he’d seen me early before. Played with his dreads, already wondering if he would have to kick me out for whatever reason I always managed to manifest. Told him it would be fine if he brought me a grapefruit juice, and I’d do the rest. He laughed, rapid bursts through a beautiful smile of gapped teeth. Brought me my mixer. Tried to keep cool as I reached into my bag and added a few fingers of Aristocrat.

“Dude.”

“Ok.”

I had a few draws from the straw. He asked me where I’d been.

And I told him,

“I was at a party, a month ago in Greensboro. Drinking just a little bit of what you just seen. Brought up there by your brother. Met a girl. Pale and hair that went straight down, bordering on plain if you were to ask whether she’s hot, but eyes that willowed, and a smile that simply did not exist.”

“Ok,” he nodded. “So maybe get you some huevos rancheros?”
“Drank myself into wasn’t even sure. After a few hours of sitting side by side by side with her, on the grass…” Realized I was still drunk, and people were sending thoughts in my direction… “She want to the bathroom, and I wandered over to your brother’s car. Opened up that back seat, slid some sheet music out of the way and took a nap. Woke up to the sound of her knocking on the window. Cigarette clamped between her teeth. Opened the door and asked me, so are you coming home with me, or what?”

Even Korben had to admit he’d found impressed on the menu. “You do have a way.”

“I do arouse curiosity.”

“You went home with her?”

“I did once go home with her.”

“Once?”

“Took a Greyhound back and fourth between Verona and Greensboro more times than I can count.”
“Thought you said this was only a few month ago.”

“Well,” I mainlined some of my drink… “What can I tell you? She was a dancer. Lovely legs. I wasn’t too good at pleasing her. Cooked her dinner, once. Told her some stories. Told her about me.”

Korben gave me the kindness of a sad look. “Flavor of the month?”

I tilted my head back, swallowed an ice cube. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky,” he tried for another smile, missed the mark by some thousand miles. “You are boring. Get some hash browns or get a fucking life.”

…But he did let me stay at the counter.

People get bored with me, but have you ever seen how every last wreck on the roadside speaks with its own kind of siren song? Crumpled bumper, hood askew, door bashed all to hell? I took another sip of Grapefruit and Aristocrat. Reached for a napkin. Pulled out the pen and and wrote down the lessons, underlined title reading, this time only.

…Well, it is a funny thing to look back on, long as you aren’t the one.

###

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so long and thanks for all the pish.

Otherwise, you find haze, drip of a billboard placed against the scenery.