Starting to realize the point of stories is for as much stuff to happen as possible. Trying to work to condition my subconscious to believe this is true. Then that'll be interesting. My Day 2 was pretty good. Go back and read that one. Also, trying to curb my road rage (road pun!) because that counts as negativity? And negativity stifles creativity. It's true I read about it in a new age pseudoscience book.
He heard the rattling on the roof of his room incessantly between 3 and 4 oclock in the morning. He’d be out wandering the halls of the old hotel when it woke him, struggling to keep his head on straight. As far as he knew, there was no way to view that outside wall. Gloria would be out walking occasionally and she wore a hat and sunglasses. The greatpower of sunglasses is the ability they preserve to observe without being viewed as vigilant. She wore a serious look on her lips, she was hiding a knowledge or factual understanding of some imminent threat or danger. Or, atleast, she made Calvin uncomfortable in her ostensible affableness.
He started to concoct cantankerous ideas. Plans would run through his head and he would shake them off, eager to persecute himself for his irrational mania.
He remembered living in a triangle shaped red house with a small dog. His memory thought of the dog as a pekanese, even though he couldn’t remember what a pekanese looked like. It was a smal dog. He kept everything on shelves for lack of closets, he had his clothes laid out for him on shelves, his wife in a jar in the backyard. There was a closed gate outside, it rattled in a gentle breeze. He saw himself smiling.
Wally was getting his swagger back. The downstairs lobby was turning into a popular spot for wretched travelers.
“They can tear the rest of the hotel away,” He said to Calvin as he approached the desk. “They can make it into a barn for all I care. Hey, Cal, what’s it like upstairs anyway?”
Calvin couldn’t figure out a reason Wally wouldn’t go upstairs. Sure, he wasn’t leaving the desk, although he had no implicit agreement with the underground people.
“It’s like a hotel. It’s me by myself in a tiny room. Nothing to fucking do. Nowhere to go. No point.” Calvin said.
“Maybe you want to help us back here sometime?” Wally said. Calvin saw him motion backwards to a darkened hallway, rectangles of light illuminating the first stretch, but the hallway began to turn at a curving angle and stretched into nothing. “You know, dig the hole.”
“Later.” Calvin said. He went outside. On the street there were fire hydrants overwhelmed with pneumatic pressure. They emitted a high pitched squeek which sounded like a tire had been popped. The trees were all losing their leaves for good, the grass was turning brown. Like a synthetic fall.
Calvin imagined he was walking a dog. He was careful not to pretend he was holding a leash. The invisible dog wasn’t real, but the moment he thought about it being there it was as if his conscience started dragging him in a direction, down around the back of the building and over a black asphalt sludged which grew thicker as he got further. The dog barked for him to follow, it was off the leash now.
He passed a fat girl who kept popping her gum, and her boyfriend who was much smaller with a shaved head and a backpack. They were talking about how he didn’t enjoy romantic comedies, as she continued to pop her gun. Calvin felt the urge to acknowledge them, but kept walking with his head down. He was on a mission.
There were several other gawkers on the way. Most people stood off to the side, oblivious to why they were drawn to the black path, he thought. They didn’t look to be questioning its existence, he could hear them and they were not talking about it, he could see an air of cordiality on their lives like they were simply putting up with it. An older man wearing a turtle neck looked especially uncomfortable because it was on too tight, but his wife wouldn’t let him take it off. He kept tucking at the neck area, and she was trying her best to ignore it.
The higher he got up, the bigger concentration of people there were. He could see the payphone on the hill from here, he could see a red layer which looked like the middle of a red velvet cake. It was made up of dragonflies, he knew, but it looked like cake. The reflection off of the lake created the illusion of and end to the viscuous layer.
His building was quite a bit above ground, he noticed. His room must have been one of the highpoints of the city. Until now, the city landscape had appeared small, but now he was aware of the scope of this world. Had it been destroyed? He thought.
Calvin suddenly realized he couldn’t remember anything, he couldn’t remember the day before. He checked his wallet, he had no ID. His still had the key tucked away in it, but he couldn’t remember where he got it or what it would be used for. He scratched his head with his longest fingernail. He retracted it and took a seat.
The dog dragged him to the apex of the black tar pit. It seemed content here. At night, the pile glimmered from heat. It might be compost but it could also be discarded ash, he thought to himself. He saw Gloria on a bench on a shorter hill, associating with a musclebound gentleman. The pangs of jealousy clutched his heart and brought him to his knees, he hadn’t been this jealous in years.
He stole some canned food from the grocery store, which wasn’t really stealing anymore. He was uncertain about the moral or ethical objections someone might have had about stealing canned fish. Other people were taking refridgerated foods, frozen pizzas, things which they would have to cook over fires which weren’t meant to be cooked over fires. He had resigned himself to eating for sustenance, like a wild animal.
He knocked on Gloria’s door that night, offered her some of his fish. The musclebound gentleman answered, opening the door with the inside of his hand like he was holding a wind instrument. “Who’s this clown?” He asked. Gloria laughed and waved, but then the door was closed.
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