Sorry, No Blues Magoos

By - Sep 3, 2019

When I was a kid, I could sense the difference in neighborhoods by the clothes and cars, the houses that were hunched like great, otherworldly cats about to pounce. I will never be that small again. The distinctions will never be that obvious. I will never be as sure of who will never say hello to me with their pretty, unapproachable smiles. My house will never again be the dead dog on a street lined with exotic felines. Don’t arrest me. I’m only trying to tell you what you need to hear if you’re ever going to stop calling the police to read me my rights. I know my rights. They give me the freedom to do this, this thing they call telling the truth. Summon me. I promise to do the chores. I will never again be told, sorry, no Blues Magoos because the snowstorm canceled the concert. Instead, I will be the enormous disappointment that makes you feel good about yourself, like a waitress in a hotel suite, unhooking the bra beneath her pale green uniform with one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other, ready to fuck the whole room, who says I know I’m scum. And you can be my heroic friend who tells her no–like a real gentleman–no you’re not, the rest of us contemplating how the hell we got here in the first place, trying to hold on to some civilized sense of ourselves that must be better than this, though we had not spoken when she spoke.