Quarter of eight.
I guess I’m just the eternal skeptic. The weather report said it was raining, but I saw no such thing. So I left the house without a jacket or umbrella, and my ocular proof was right. I got to the store and back without feeling a drop. Firsthand knowledge can’t be emphasized enough. Always judge for yourself when possible. Take nothing on faith. This is the lesson I’ve learned by experience. But I suppose it can be taken too far sometimes, like when I was warned that alcoholism would kill me. I didn’t believe it until I was inches from death.
The cloudy August morning brings back things from years ago, like seeing Vicki and Belinda at the little market on weekdays. Time stood still for that place for a handful of years. I remember a guy who worked there named Tyler who was very nice, and also a guy named Perry who wore glasses; kind of intellectual. I gave him my copy of Sartre’s Nausea which he read and gave to another person, starting a circulation of the book. He told me about a biography of Richard F. Burton that he’d read. And then I remember Cecil, the guy who played the drums, doing fast paradiddles on the countertop. He knew someone who bought a fretless Ken Smith bass brand new. He was afraid to even touch it, it was so precious… I saw a lot of people cycle through that place around the corner from my house. I recall once standing in the rain with an umbrella, chatting with Lacey about business at the deli. She said they sold lots of burgers and fewer sandwiches. She made jewelry and put it out for sale inside the deli. It all feels like a dream to me now, an impossible kaleidoscope of someone else’s memories. Yet the chalice for it all is just my own soul.