Albert Bronson
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Oct 22, 2005
- Messages
- 1
i know this forum doesn't get much prose, but i thought i'd put one of my prose pieces out there. i've read this forum for a long time, but never had the balls to post before. the piece is a little long, bout 1600 words. but if you have the time, i'd appreciate any feedback, positive or negative, you could give me. cheers!
I met Kid Sidney in a dream.
That’s the way I like to tell it anyway. It makes for a colorful anecdote. I always make sure my arsenal of colorful anecdotes is properly stocked. It can be pretty handy. You can get a lot out of people with amusing stories and a carefully practiced sociability.
It was a muggy night, as I recall. The air was really moist, but it wasn’t a refreshing moisture. It was a stagnant, oppressive kind of sticky moistness that clung to your chest like melted plastic. It was the moisture of hot breath, and the night stank of it. I was at my parents house, and I fell asleep naked with all the windows open.
Dreams can be tough to get a read on. Often times you can’t tell up from down in a dream. Things shift and change and dissolve away into other things and sometimes it all comes together and sometimes it all unravels into chaos, and all at breakneck speed so by the time you figure out that the person you were talking to in the bottom of that empty pool was your high school biology teacher their face has already melted into a diaphanous blob of talking sewage and before you know it you’re driving an aluminum can down the street. At any rate, I hope other people have dreams like that. I would hate to be the only one.
I usually can’t remember my dreams at all. They are like thought grenades that detonate inside my skull while I sleep. By the time I wake up, the residue from the explosion has faded away into nothing but a thin vaporous impression that slips away from my outstretched fingers like morning mist. By the time I’ve finished my coffee in the morning, the whole experience is a thing of the past.
But I remember what I dreamt that night. I was standing in a valley, penned in on all sides by rugged mountains, jagged crags rising up to impossible heights. The sun burned the sky, a fountain of sparks and smoke cascading down the face of the celestial sphere. Smoke mixed with fog and descended on the valley, enveloping me in a hazy ethereal mist. A shapeless figure rose up from the ground.
He was wearing a loincloth and nothing else. Like a buffalo, his face was wide and dark, pulpy flesh pulsating in tempo with the angry, flared canopy of his nostrils. A pair of beady black marble eyeballs came to rest on me from deep within their sunken sockets. The flesh itself was thick and soft, like steak browned in a frying pan. Beads of sweat carved out rivulets in the moistness of his face, and his eyes bled a thick, darkish water. Wavy tendrils of wild black hair streamed down his back like oil slicks, churning in little eddies along the crooked curve of his spine. He was carrying an enormous bow with an arrow knocked, drawn back by his bulging mottled arms. The bow itself was impossibly tall. The barbed head of the arrow throbbed and contorted in agony. Thick strands of mucous ran freely from his nostrils, stuck to his chest in goopy translucent globs. His whole body convulsed violently, the chest cavity expanding and contracting to impossible extremes with each ragged breath. I was impotent, my movement paralyzed by a transcendent awe that pierced every part of my body. The power and violence of this creature that had risen up out of the moist earth at my feet was hypnotic.
The sheets were damp with my sweat when I woke. It was still dark. I got up and went to the mirror, stared at my muted reflection. Something to break the monotony. “I don't look at myself in the mirror because I'm a narcissist. I just like to watch myself exist.” It became a chant in my head.
I didn’t go back to sleep that night.
Kid Sidney had begun boxing in the Police Athletic League when he was twelve. By the time I met him in a musky dive bar he hadn’t put on a pair of gloves in years. His left knee popped when he walked. The flesh above one of his eyes twitched every few minutes. His hair was oily and he never wore black shirts because they quickly became pockmarked with dusty flakes of dandruff. Aside from the knee popping, he dragged one of his feet when he walked and moved with a cumbersome shuffle. I think he had a fungal infection on his foot, but I felt weird asking him about it.
He was tall and lumpy and our meeting was simply coincidental. I sat next to him at the bar. If I remember correctly he was wearing a white turtleneck and some black slacks, but I’m not one to really remember those kinds of details. He had that mysterious, imposing quality that makes you want to strike up a casual conversation but never invite him over to your house or introduce him to any of your friends.
We started talking. His face was a little frightening at first. It was a medley of scars and pimples and discolored patches; I wanted to ask him about what looked like a puncture wound in his cheek but decided against it. Eventually his face seemed to soften in the dim light, made more pliable by the smoky air and the three drinks I’d had. Curiously, his eyes were mesmeric. They leaked a certain understated melancholy, embossed with a humble charm that contrasted so sharply with his other features.
We leapt from one transparent topic to another. I found out he was a fan of the Phillies, hated cold weather and only wore cotton underwear. His dad sold vacuum cleaners and his mom died in a rangetop stove accident when he was ten. As a result, he only barbecued with charcoal. His last girlfriend became a lesbian.
The dead dream of his professional boxing career was never mentioned, despite the fact that it was painfully obvious that his life had been reduced to a mere shadow of what he hoped it would one day be. It’s bad form to bring up things that everyone’s thinking but no one wants to say. I bought him another beer and we called it a night.
“You drive here?” I asked him.
“No.” But he lived right up the street.
“I’ll walk with ya.”
The dank, humid tenor of the previous night had given way to biting novemberish air. My cheeks stung as we ambled down the sidewalk. His apartment was on a cul-de-sac two blocks away from the bar, a dark little street tucked away in the bowels of the city like a shoebox full of forgettables ensconced in the back of a closet. There was one streetlight, placed strategically so as to provide the least amount of useable light possible. The city had come by years ago and planted some oak trees but the roots had overgrown their humble confines and snaked under the pavement, splitting the sidewalk in various places like dried flesh. Weeds crowded the cracks, poking up into the moist air like the emaciated fingers of starving children.
“It’s right here,” he said. It was a two-story apartment building. Dilapidated. Peeling paint. The bottom floor had a busted window, covered now by a trash bag that was taped in place. The trash bag fluttered noisily in the wind. “You wanna come inside?”
“Sure.”
His apartment was on the first floor. It had that peculiar old apartment smell, the musty funk of being lived in by dozens of different people. The carpet was thick and hairy. The place was uncluttered. A few pictures, a television, a recliner. I excused myself to use the bathroom, which was also carpeted and smelled of mildew. There were three empty bottles of dandruff shampoo on the sink and a bag of disposable razors. No windows.
Kid Sidney had opened another beer and was watching television in the living room. He offered me a beer. I was beginning to feel awkward. “Actually, I’ve got an appointment in the morning. I really should get back to my place.”
“Alright,” he said. He didn’t get up.
I took a moment, and glanced at the framed pictures on the coffee table. One was his mother, I think. She had curly hair and the faint impression of a mustache on her upper lip. There was another picture of a nondescript middle age male. Could’ve been his father. Or his grandfather. Or anyone. Funny how we come to conclusions in our own minds. The third picture was Kid Sidney getting his knuckles taped, preparing for a fight. He was probably seventeen. Sleek and trim like an otter. A crooked smile cracked the monotony of his face, muscles taut with anticipation. The photograph captured a certain inexpressible vitality, the wet imprint of youth made tangible for anyone who laid eyes on it.
“OK, well if I’m ever in the neighborhood I’ll give you a ring,” I said, which was a lie because I didn’t have his phone number. Kid Sidney nodded without lifting his eyes. The tv cast fluid shadows across his face. I left the apartment.
When I got back to my place I felt the dysphoria set in. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. There was a subtle, overwhelming tragedy to the dramatic arch of Kid Sidney’s life. The way things panned out for him. The musky apartment. The bad complexion. The knee-popping.
I went in the bathroom and splashed water in my face. My reflection shimmered in the mirror, muted in the dim light from the hall.
““I don't look at myself in the mirror because I'm a narcissist. I just like to watch myself exist.”
My breathing became more regular.
I just like to watch myself exist.
I met Kid Sidney in a dream.
That’s the way I like to tell it anyway. It makes for a colorful anecdote. I always make sure my arsenal of colorful anecdotes is properly stocked. It can be pretty handy. You can get a lot out of people with amusing stories and a carefully practiced sociability.
It was a muggy night, as I recall. The air was really moist, but it wasn’t a refreshing moisture. It was a stagnant, oppressive kind of sticky moistness that clung to your chest like melted plastic. It was the moisture of hot breath, and the night stank of it. I was at my parents house, and I fell asleep naked with all the windows open.
Dreams can be tough to get a read on. Often times you can’t tell up from down in a dream. Things shift and change and dissolve away into other things and sometimes it all comes together and sometimes it all unravels into chaos, and all at breakneck speed so by the time you figure out that the person you were talking to in the bottom of that empty pool was your high school biology teacher their face has already melted into a diaphanous blob of talking sewage and before you know it you’re driving an aluminum can down the street. At any rate, I hope other people have dreams like that. I would hate to be the only one.
I usually can’t remember my dreams at all. They are like thought grenades that detonate inside my skull while I sleep. By the time I wake up, the residue from the explosion has faded away into nothing but a thin vaporous impression that slips away from my outstretched fingers like morning mist. By the time I’ve finished my coffee in the morning, the whole experience is a thing of the past.
But I remember what I dreamt that night. I was standing in a valley, penned in on all sides by rugged mountains, jagged crags rising up to impossible heights. The sun burned the sky, a fountain of sparks and smoke cascading down the face of the celestial sphere. Smoke mixed with fog and descended on the valley, enveloping me in a hazy ethereal mist. A shapeless figure rose up from the ground.
He was wearing a loincloth and nothing else. Like a buffalo, his face was wide and dark, pulpy flesh pulsating in tempo with the angry, flared canopy of his nostrils. A pair of beady black marble eyeballs came to rest on me from deep within their sunken sockets. The flesh itself was thick and soft, like steak browned in a frying pan. Beads of sweat carved out rivulets in the moistness of his face, and his eyes bled a thick, darkish water. Wavy tendrils of wild black hair streamed down his back like oil slicks, churning in little eddies along the crooked curve of his spine. He was carrying an enormous bow with an arrow knocked, drawn back by his bulging mottled arms. The bow itself was impossibly tall. The barbed head of the arrow throbbed and contorted in agony. Thick strands of mucous ran freely from his nostrils, stuck to his chest in goopy translucent globs. His whole body convulsed violently, the chest cavity expanding and contracting to impossible extremes with each ragged breath. I was impotent, my movement paralyzed by a transcendent awe that pierced every part of my body. The power and violence of this creature that had risen up out of the moist earth at my feet was hypnotic.
The sheets were damp with my sweat when I woke. It was still dark. I got up and went to the mirror, stared at my muted reflection. Something to break the monotony. “I don't look at myself in the mirror because I'm a narcissist. I just like to watch myself exist.” It became a chant in my head.
I didn’t go back to sleep that night.
Kid Sidney had begun boxing in the Police Athletic League when he was twelve. By the time I met him in a musky dive bar he hadn’t put on a pair of gloves in years. His left knee popped when he walked. The flesh above one of his eyes twitched every few minutes. His hair was oily and he never wore black shirts because they quickly became pockmarked with dusty flakes of dandruff. Aside from the knee popping, he dragged one of his feet when he walked and moved with a cumbersome shuffle. I think he had a fungal infection on his foot, but I felt weird asking him about it.
He was tall and lumpy and our meeting was simply coincidental. I sat next to him at the bar. If I remember correctly he was wearing a white turtleneck and some black slacks, but I’m not one to really remember those kinds of details. He had that mysterious, imposing quality that makes you want to strike up a casual conversation but never invite him over to your house or introduce him to any of your friends.
We started talking. His face was a little frightening at first. It was a medley of scars and pimples and discolored patches; I wanted to ask him about what looked like a puncture wound in his cheek but decided against it. Eventually his face seemed to soften in the dim light, made more pliable by the smoky air and the three drinks I’d had. Curiously, his eyes were mesmeric. They leaked a certain understated melancholy, embossed with a humble charm that contrasted so sharply with his other features.
We leapt from one transparent topic to another. I found out he was a fan of the Phillies, hated cold weather and only wore cotton underwear. His dad sold vacuum cleaners and his mom died in a rangetop stove accident when he was ten. As a result, he only barbecued with charcoal. His last girlfriend became a lesbian.
The dead dream of his professional boxing career was never mentioned, despite the fact that it was painfully obvious that his life had been reduced to a mere shadow of what he hoped it would one day be. It’s bad form to bring up things that everyone’s thinking but no one wants to say. I bought him another beer and we called it a night.
“You drive here?” I asked him.
“No.” But he lived right up the street.
“I’ll walk with ya.”
The dank, humid tenor of the previous night had given way to biting novemberish air. My cheeks stung as we ambled down the sidewalk. His apartment was on a cul-de-sac two blocks away from the bar, a dark little street tucked away in the bowels of the city like a shoebox full of forgettables ensconced in the back of a closet. There was one streetlight, placed strategically so as to provide the least amount of useable light possible. The city had come by years ago and planted some oak trees but the roots had overgrown their humble confines and snaked under the pavement, splitting the sidewalk in various places like dried flesh. Weeds crowded the cracks, poking up into the moist air like the emaciated fingers of starving children.
“It’s right here,” he said. It was a two-story apartment building. Dilapidated. Peeling paint. The bottom floor had a busted window, covered now by a trash bag that was taped in place. The trash bag fluttered noisily in the wind. “You wanna come inside?”
“Sure.”
His apartment was on the first floor. It had that peculiar old apartment smell, the musty funk of being lived in by dozens of different people. The carpet was thick and hairy. The place was uncluttered. A few pictures, a television, a recliner. I excused myself to use the bathroom, which was also carpeted and smelled of mildew. There were three empty bottles of dandruff shampoo on the sink and a bag of disposable razors. No windows.
Kid Sidney had opened another beer and was watching television in the living room. He offered me a beer. I was beginning to feel awkward. “Actually, I’ve got an appointment in the morning. I really should get back to my place.”
“Alright,” he said. He didn’t get up.
I took a moment, and glanced at the framed pictures on the coffee table. One was his mother, I think. She had curly hair and the faint impression of a mustache on her upper lip. There was another picture of a nondescript middle age male. Could’ve been his father. Or his grandfather. Or anyone. Funny how we come to conclusions in our own minds. The third picture was Kid Sidney getting his knuckles taped, preparing for a fight. He was probably seventeen. Sleek and trim like an otter. A crooked smile cracked the monotony of his face, muscles taut with anticipation. The photograph captured a certain inexpressible vitality, the wet imprint of youth made tangible for anyone who laid eyes on it.
“OK, well if I’m ever in the neighborhood I’ll give you a ring,” I said, which was a lie because I didn’t have his phone number. Kid Sidney nodded without lifting his eyes. The tv cast fluid shadows across his face. I left the apartment.
When I got back to my place I felt the dysphoria set in. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. There was a subtle, overwhelming tragedy to the dramatic arch of Kid Sidney’s life. The way things panned out for him. The musky apartment. The bad complexion. The knee-popping.
I went in the bathroom and splashed water in my face. My reflection shimmered in the mirror, muted in the dim light from the hall.
““I don't look at myself in the mirror because I'm a narcissist. I just like to watch myself exist.”
My breathing became more regular.
I just like to watch myself exist.
