Imagine a man. He wears an overcoat and a scarf, and he carries a briefcase. What does he want?
He is a Russian spy, and he wants Pentagon secrets.
He is an insurance salesman looking a little better so you know he doesn’t sell insurance to the riff-raff. This guy actually provides a valuable service. He makes you feel like you’re not riff-raff.
He is probably not a wealthy oil baron.
He probably wants sex.
Imagine a ceiling.
Is it a Byzantine mosaic? A tessellated white and black pattern like your kitchen floor? Asbestos? That white clumpy stuff they make ceilings out of, I don’t know what it is. What does a ceiling want?
Who cares about a ceiling?
He beat the drum with both his hands like his skin was talking out of them, whoomph, whoomph, two quick shouts. He wanted you to hear the drum. There was something in the drum, religion, an old voodoo spirit. Don’t put it into words, Saracen, you can’t put it into words.
When I want to leave a room, I roll it around in my head first. I see if I think I’ve been there long enough, and if not, I decide on a time that seems to indicate to me a time that is long enough. I think of the people I will have to say good bye to, and whether I have been funny or interesting. You’ll just see me leave, you probably will not reflect on how I have felt thinking about it.
Whoomph, whoomph, talking. It bounces off the ceiling, I suppose you can feel it in the street. I wonder if it has language that will survive the transition to force. Do they see it over 84th street, a cloud of speech? How familiar are their legs with drum speak?
I rarely remember that I’m in a body, which is curious because all I see when I walk around are bodies. Now, obviously more than usually.
I wish I didn’t want to leave. There’s nothing boring about this on more than a technical level—that level being that, technically, I’m bored. It’s hot and sweaty in here. No one’s talking to me and I’ve sunk below the level of cool that enables me to imagine that anyone will talk to me.
A horn starts in, red notes and blue notes, a long lonesome sound. More sweat. The drummer’s hands bounce, nearly invisible. No sticks, nothing intermediating the kinetic experience. Leather on leather. The sounds weave in and out of each other. Should that happen? A trumpet makes a sound, quantifiably a note. Drums don’t play those. How does that work?
The bartender is asking me if I need another, like that’s a question I should know the answer to.
He adjusts his scarf, puts the briefcase down, just for a minute, looks at his watch. He exhales. He picks up the briefcase. His back is straight, the whole time.