Arrival in Charlotte, Three Days Later

Secured in a blanket at three in the morning is no way for a man to spend his time. Watching the reruns drift pass with a regretful pacing. The hits come harder now, at this time of night, being as all things are, upside-down and belligerently drifting into the barely-lit borders of the other room.

Somewhere is the newspaper where I can forget the news at three in the morning, and forget about death for long enough to stretch out passed the four walls, wander out inside of it all slouching over time like an old disc jockey. It keeps me from finally losing it all among the scrap heaps of bulletins that act as a bizarre counterpoint to the out put in the other room, I'm in the kitchen, eating a sandwich when the phone rings the next morning.

I'm full of hope at the arrival of the ringing, but I can already fill the chilly disappointment when the deal has gone south, and I can leave the couch on the shag carpet, step outside, cross the street and pick a comfortable view for when the tide comes and washes us away, on the rain-slicked heels of my arrival in Charlotte.

Gaitlin Hall is where the low money makers sell there wares, quickly, astutely and without the caffeine come-down. Four of them now, down the hall of the convention center I find myself in. The coffee is a bitter concern, subduing the awkward family visit, having been spared the awkward explanation of the scientific world: how kids are made and wives raised by greyhounds are as rare as radiance in a mock trial.