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February 01, 2007

Page 28

When I'm in that 19-step world, I could win a prize for being the number-1 polite drunk. It's simple. All it takes is accepting the truth of being drunk. No ifs, ands, or buts. Just the simple fact: I am drunk.

That's how I become so super-polite. The earliest-rising starling and the last boxcar over the bridge.

Five... six... seven...

At the eighth step I pause, open my eyes, and take a deep breath. A faint sound. Like an ocean breeze flowing through a rusty wire screen. Now that I think of it, it's been a while since I've seen the ocean.
It was July 24, 6:30am. It was the ideal time of year for the beach and an ideal time of day. There wasn't yet anybody there to ruin the beach. The footprints of seagulls were scattered across the beach like old pine needles in the wind.

The beach, huh?

Once more, I began walking. Forget the beach, already. Those things have already vanished way into the past.

Posted by tim at 11:50 PM | Comments (0)

February 05, 2007

Page 29

When I stop at the sixteenth step and open my eyes, I am, as always, straight in front of my door. I pull two days worth of newspapers and a couple letters from my mailbox and slip them under my arm. I pull my keys from the far recesses of my pocket and, holding them in my hand, I rest my forehead on the frigid steel door for a moment. Behind my ear I hear a slight metallic noise -- my body soaking up the alcohol like cotton; me only barely in control of my senses. Great.

I open the door maybe a third of way and slip through and close it. The entrance was absolutely silent. More silent than necessary.

Then, I noticed the existence of red pumps in the entrance. They were pumps I'd seen before. Stuck between my mud-spattered tennis shoes and some cheap beach sandals they looked like an out-of-season Christmas present. Silence, like a fine dust, floated through the air.

She was slumped over the kitchen table, head on her arms, profile hidden by her straight, black hair. I could see the white nape of her neck, untouched by the sun.

[Ed. note: So it turns out it's hard to translate drunken hallway-walking. This is beautiful in the translation and I haven't begun to do it justice. I've also cheated from Birnbaum a lot. Oh well. Also, verb tense. Shh.]

Posted by tim at 11:50 PM | Comments (0)