Day 4: day of celebration

Last night, I stayed up until 2:30am looking at airfare before buying a ticket to Guayaquil.

Today, I wrote over coffee, played basketball, then biked down to Oakland, and drank hefeweizen in the sunshine. From there, it only got better--cornhole in the backyard, the Mavs-Thunger game, KFC, beers, and a movie.

Below is the non-fiction piece I worked on yesterday. Another unfinished piece of prose, which I would surely polish before posting if anyone in the world were reading this.

Did I mention that I decided to move to India? Life unfurls unpredictably. I can't be too hard on myself-- after all, my start-up is getting picked up by the Spanish press:

http://noticias.lainformacion.com/mundo/mensajes-de-movil-para-beber-agua-del-grifo-en-la-india_hH4NlLQ0ww2k0GsTt8cCO6/

-AO

--

Circus. Not long after my father moved to the Ritz apartments, we went to the small circus that moved into a lot up the street. Given the circumstances, it should have impressed us: the lion-tamer in his top hat and cape, the crack of the whip, the ring of fire. Maybe we took our cues from the lion, because the lion was not impressed. It refused to budge. The louder the crack of the whip, the more the lion shat.

Later, there was an elephant, its back covered in dark hair.

“Free big mac!” they shouted after us, as we left, “Snow cone!”

Downstairs. Downstairs, they’re yelling again.

“You want to take the test? You fucking take the test! I’ll beat the shit out of you!” he yells. “You better stop, dude. We’re going to have a motherfucking fight.”

“You going to come back and beat me up again?” she fires back.

“Probably!”

He storms out, and she follows him around the corner of the house, begs him not to go.

Their mail comes to us, and we hand it over. They use aliases. Rebecca Brainich, Jason T. Novak. Five other names. The guy, O’Dawg, once received a postcard from LA. There was no address, no date.

Hey Friend,

Well, I crossed over to the dark side--this is no place to be. We’ve had some good times, friend, been through quite a lot. You’re the only one who truly knows how deep this shit gets. Well, I’ll let you know next time I come up for air, if I ever do. And so on. I wish I'd made a copy.

I wave to them in front of the house, as if everything is okay.

Engage. If I were another type of writer, I’d get to the bottom of their story. The lives unfolding beneath us, in the basement of our duplex. Figure out what drugs they’re on--coke, heroin, or meth? Figure out why their friends rifle through the garbage, how their window broke. Learn to tell the score, work out the points of contention in their shitty relationship.

But it’s not my habit to intrude. It’s precisely the opposite of my habit. For me, even a glance, an unkind word constitutes an intrusion.