Heap is the poor boy at the party.
At least, he imagined he would be.
Like Sonny Crawford thinking black thoughts.
Just because he wasn’t the captain of the football team.
Wasn’t the date of the Homecoming Queen. Homecoming
is the Feast of Bad Conscience. Like Christmas. Heap hated Christmas.
Bah, humbug. He ate at a halfway house for recovering alcoholics.
The Palm Trail Lodge. That was when he was getting sober in AA.
Every day is a gift. There, but for the grace of God, go I: an earth-person.
Heap augured in. Then resurrected himself. Now, he just didn’t
give a shit if he lived or died. It was almost over.
Mostly, he didn’t drink. The pleasure had gone out of it.
Once in a while he did, just to keep his hand in.
Like Lefty Frizzell robbing a filling station.
Bronislaw
Malinowski wrote The Sexual Life of
Savages
of North-Western
a sex life. Even if it’s mostly in their heads. In memory.
They have performance issues long after they have quit performing.
Sir, are you a good lay? Advertising drills it into you.
You must buy this product. Must I? Who says so?
I am hors de combat.
I am past all that.
Mostly.