Paper of Plastic?
I could tell you about the gnarly crash on the highway where the little, white, compact car was rammed from the rear on the highway; causing the rear window to explode like confetti all over the highway, then spin wildly out-of-control into the guard rail, crumpling the front and sides like an accordion around the screaming, vomiting, dazed occupants.
Or, I could tell you about the lady who had a headache for three days, along with nausea and vomiting. Who blamed the "bad orange juice" for her blurry vision that developed into slurred, speech, that developed into causing her to fall out of bed, land on the ground and loose control of the left side of her body. The "orange juice", that ruptured a vessel in her brain, exploding like a firecracker in the middle of the night. The "orange juice" that eventually caused her to have a seizure in the back of the ambulance and lead her to be intubated. Denial is an awful thing!
But, you don't want to hear about that, do you? You want to hear about the bearded guy in the hotel room wearing a brown T-shirt (that was once white, I kid you not), lying on brown sheets (that were once white, I kid you not), in a room with dust bunnies the size of Godzilla.
This trust fund baby (I kid you not) that lives in a seedy motel room with the "Do Not Disturb" tags not hanging on the door knob, but taped, like laminate, to the front of the door. Inside, the sound of a small, handheld radio plays oldies music. Reminiscent of World War II, where people hid in basements and huddled around the scratchy noise of an old-fashioned radio. On the clock, a crisp 10 dollar bill.
He was tired. Just couldn't move around. Something was wrong. Something odd, in this bizarro world of his. Dirt was caked on him like he had been four-wheeling in Moab. He couldn't, or wouldn't, take showers because that's where he hung his clothes, in the shower. One light, in the corner, and 60 watts at best, illuminated the moldy room so he could work on his numbers.
Like the guy from a beautiful mind, there were math calculations everywhere. Half-sheets of white 8 1/2 by 11 paper were stacked on top of one another. On the dresser, on the TV, which hasn't been turned on in years, and was probably black and white. In the bathroom, and on his bed. As well as years worth of dust sleeping on every surface.
Stacks of cassettes, although I saw no cassette player, where balancing precariously upon one another. Bob Dylan, surprisingly, was resting on one of the piles. All these cassettes were in arms reach from his queen sized bed, his command center, the center of his universe.
He was wearing a brown shirt, or actually it seemed more Army tan. But upon closer examination it was once white. Now, when I say his shirt was brown, even though it was white, I am taking no story-telling liberties. Story tellers always seem to grandiose things in order to grab the attention of the reader. When I say the white shirt was brown, it was brown. And his sheets. The once white sheets stuck to his waxy skin like cookies baked on an ungreased pan. No pillow. No comforter. Just a sheet, queen-sized, that has been lived on for close to 10 years by the King of this castle.
And finally, like landminds strewn about a field were brown paper, grocery sacks. Everywhere. Sitting side by side from the entrance of the door, around his bed into the "living" area, and then down the hall into the closet and overflowing into the bathroom. Some had tapes. Some had new, unopened, white, queen-sized sheets, some had new, pressed, white starchy T-shirts. And the majority were full of calculations.
Paper sacks full of chocolate wrappers, too. Chocolate, that he only eats every 3 days.
Or, I could tell you about the lady who had a headache for three days, along with nausea and vomiting. Who blamed the "bad orange juice" for her blurry vision that developed into slurred, speech, that developed into causing her to fall out of bed, land on the ground and loose control of the left side of her body. The "orange juice", that ruptured a vessel in her brain, exploding like a firecracker in the middle of the night. The "orange juice" that eventually caused her to have a seizure in the back of the ambulance and lead her to be intubated. Denial is an awful thing!
But, you don't want to hear about that, do you? You want to hear about the bearded guy in the hotel room wearing a brown T-shirt (that was once white, I kid you not), lying on brown sheets (that were once white, I kid you not), in a room with dust bunnies the size of Godzilla.
This trust fund baby (I kid you not) that lives in a seedy motel room with the "Do Not Disturb" tags not hanging on the door knob, but taped, like laminate, to the front of the door. Inside, the sound of a small, handheld radio plays oldies music. Reminiscent of World War II, where people hid in basements and huddled around the scratchy noise of an old-fashioned radio. On the clock, a crisp 10 dollar bill.
He was tired. Just couldn't move around. Something was wrong. Something odd, in this bizarro world of his. Dirt was caked on him like he had been four-wheeling in Moab. He couldn't, or wouldn't, take showers because that's where he hung his clothes, in the shower. One light, in the corner, and 60 watts at best, illuminated the moldy room so he could work on his numbers.
Like the guy from a beautiful mind, there were math calculations everywhere. Half-sheets of white 8 1/2 by 11 paper were stacked on top of one another. On the dresser, on the TV, which hasn't been turned on in years, and was probably black and white. In the bathroom, and on his bed. As well as years worth of dust sleeping on every surface.
Stacks of cassettes, although I saw no cassette player, where balancing precariously upon one another. Bob Dylan, surprisingly, was resting on one of the piles. All these cassettes were in arms reach from his queen sized bed, his command center, the center of his universe.
He was wearing a brown shirt, or actually it seemed more Army tan. But upon closer examination it was once white. Now, when I say his shirt was brown, even though it was white, I am taking no story-telling liberties. Story tellers always seem to grandiose things in order to grab the attention of the reader. When I say the white shirt was brown, it was brown. And his sheets. The once white sheets stuck to his waxy skin like cookies baked on an ungreased pan. No pillow. No comforter. Just a sheet, queen-sized, that has been lived on for close to 10 years by the King of this castle.
And finally, like landminds strewn about a field were brown paper, grocery sacks. Everywhere. Sitting side by side from the entrance of the door, around his bed into the "living" area, and then down the hall into the closet and overflowing into the bathroom. Some had tapes. Some had new, unopened, white, queen-sized sheets, some had new, pressed, white starchy T-shirts. And the majority were full of calculations.
Paper sacks full of chocolate wrappers, too. Chocolate, that he only eats every 3 days.
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