Car Salesman

Your skin and clothes have become the same color as concrete, and people don’t even notice you anymore.

It started like a whisper inside. Harmless enough at first. Like a mouse living in your apartment. As soon as you forget about him you see the little fatty scrambling and wobbling along the wall. Sooner or later, the little mouse grows into a raccoon that occasionally sits on your chest while you sleep.

I hope, dear sir, that such a thing isn’t rumbling around you now.

I wished this morning that I didn’t see the blonde girl sitting in the window of the hotel La Mirage with her hand tucked under her chin watching the rain fall on Hollywood. My work shoes weren’t holding up very well in the puddles, and every few minutes I would find myself in battles to maintain possession of my umbrella against the wind on the narrow sidewalk, and as far as I could tell I was the only pedestrian around.

I kept thinking about her, and imagined that her veins carried not only blood, but novels, and paragraphs, and sentences, and little men were marching up and down them with their typewriters, and official-looking black suits with hats, and they could be mistaken for FBI men but they are writers dressed to type a motherfucker out and give birth to some master prose. Something that seems to tell all of time that we were here and we were made of more than organs, and machines, and that we looked for everything.

Inside and outside.

A full investigation was made

Nothing considered scrap, nothing re-written or revised or buried or burned.

And I wanted to let her know all of this, and toss my umbrella away and make a sign in the cold rain to tell her all of this, and at the very least let her know that I saw her, and I had hope for her

but I’d surely appear crazy making any such attempt

but then again maybe it would have saved both of us.

and then perhaps she would run out the hotel door and sprint across the street in her bare feet, stop a few steps short of me, catch her breath and look right at me, and swallow me whole, never to let me out alive again.

and I’d be a writer employed by her

working on her veins

and fully documenting her

on official business.

But I must remind myself I am a mere internet car salesman. And I do apologize.


6 Responses to “Car Salesman”

  1. To me, this is one of your best bro.

  2. Endomommy Says:

    I like how you wrote this . It made me feel lost for you, but not like you were never not in control. Good very

  3. Endomommy Says:

    Everytime I read it I get something different..I like the anticipation

  4. thanks Amy you are very kind indeed!

  5. Very natural rhythmic style. Grazie, Caro davide

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