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Train Love:
The Shadowy Pallid Sensational Death of Hope and Promise
--------
by Captain Happy
Timothy James strapped himself in with a pleasing stabilizing click.
The bags were in the trunk. Every possession and every obsession he
owned were folded and packed volume-friendly in a colorful array of
rainbow-hued suitcases, garbage bags, cardboard boxes (with the words
"Safeway" or "Kleenex" or "Mom's Jewelry" stenciled on the side in faded
black near-forgotten ink). His soul and his brain shrink-wrapped in
unobtrusive, user-friendly, bland and boring packaging.
But the world loomed ahead.
He started the motor with a flash of a shadow of a routine action.
Grind, cough, purr. Pretty baby.
Foot to the gas and the past dribbling down his spine like forgotten
imagery. Bloody steps on the linoleum, the corpse not even cold yet, the
limp body of his knowledge and memory.
Timothy James had his lunch packed and his keys in his pocket.
Timothy James knew the way and had a map.
Timmy could finally, consummately, without a spark of hesitation,
fuck the world.
Tim was on the move.
The sun was setting like a melting potful of orange, red, and yellow
marshmallows. Like cotton candy for the eye. Brain food. Music
sledgehammer from the 'Mobile cranking out at max juice. Pedal to the
metal. The present unraveling behind his eyes and underneath his wheels
like a thread from a grandma-knit sweater. Gravel crunching and spitting.
Gravel never to be seen again. How symbolic.
Open book. Blank sheet.
The Johnsons were waiting. The Snob Babes, too. And the Juicy Juice
Combo Punch. The Flick Chicks had given him their address and wallet
photos. The Mayor of PissView had given him a key to the city. A fuzzy
photocopy image of the world was swallowing him up and Timothy James was
just so totally, without-a-doubt, absolutely digging it. The vibes from
the trees, the sands, the distant moons and telephone wires were buzzing
through his bones.
He had toilet paper and juju beans. He had his television and his
wallet. He had his sleeveless shirts and desensitizing novelettes. He had
kneeless jeans and SuperClean. He had his compact disc library. He had
hopes and dreams. Exciting. He had memory and past. Less so. He had socks
and clean underwear. He had extra bedding. He had a shower curtain.
Fuck the world and eat me up, thought Timmy.
Adrenaline pumping, wheels spinning, scenery fading, life passing,
minutes slowing, blooms opening.
The 'Mobile peeled away from the town he'd known all his life.
Let the journey of life begin. Let all that is potential congregate
within my brain and caress my thoughts and nerve endings. Let the women
of the world know that I am one hot character. Let the skylights and the
skyscrapers crumble to my feet. Let the hot pavement lick my soles. Let
this all not be for naught. Let the gods deem themselves worthy to stroke
my forehead and pinch my nipples. Let me conquer the forests of mind and
the chasms of love. Let me get away from here and never come back. Let me
be a party animal with a totally fab hairdo.
Let's get this shit on the road, thought Timothy James with a
subtle, movie-star grin.
A large train hit the car within which Timothy James sat, killing
him instantly--yet far from painlessly--and pretty much totalling the
car, too.
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+lukewarm@bbs.bplanet.com + + + + + + + + + ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/Luke+
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+ + + + + + + + + + + +everything you do is wrong + + + + + + + + + + + +
+ + + + + + + + + +copyright? what copyright? (c) 1997+ + + + + + + + + +