Lenny, Van and the Van Hundrith Brothers
He'd be a poet then, and let every note wring out the truth that befalls even the darkest Burgundy spill, though not as badly as a merlot.
He was hearing this conversation as he heard most things, seated elegently, poised between the iron sharp angles of the olive table cloth. It matched the sag in his hair, the way the bangs seemed to emulate the balancing act the table cloth played, as it settled into the beginnings of a raucous evening.
Seated at the bar were two old school chums,Robert Patrick Sullivan and Van Grady Sharboneau. Van had squandered his fathers fortune into a chain store empire of punk barbershops, and made a lot of money doing it, even if half of it did go off to pay the child support for the three kids sheltered away up at Hammond, until the first thaw came in, and the kids ran around the town touching their silvery moneyd elbows into the flatbush back alleys of rural Lordstown.
He thought about the squandering, Lenny did, and he sat as his childhood friends boasted and bragged of bedazzling sentimentality, weaving it thick like cotton candy on a the tepid edge of a blade.
His thoughts trailed off during these sessions, as he often did. He would slip away in the middle of dinner, while sitting at the Bistro on this February evening. His thoughts would turn to his own creative ideas, ones that only came to him after the third glass of merlot, after Van would spill his, and chuckle at the angle the waiter would attack the stain, with a dozen starched white napkins. Spread out like a bloody piece of oragami, they would get a big kick out of it, while Lenny sipped his and entertained thoughts of what he was going to do now that the divorce papers had been signed.
Hed be a poet, then if she'll have me and make the morning run into Anchorage, if Ihe could find his way back to Montana. He'd take the railroad and guitar and just get out. Play, move around, love women who struggle, make babies and live in a log cabin along the banks of a defrosted river, run warm with heat, love and the knowledge that awaits like the first frost that come and destroys all of yer crops.
But the voice changed, and Robert piped in.
Lenny regained composure, he was at his local, afterall. The first frost had arrived, and the daughters were home from school This was his chance to get out and see more, alone and free, moving though the long stretched cabins of the Combine train, sleek in the way it came out of the tunnel roaring at 85 mph.
Hed sit on the dining car composing sesistans while dreaming of bedding the single rich women of the gentry. They'd voyage down from Canada each winter. Too cold for the rich, theyd say over conversation.
But Lenny was still at the bar, listening to Van go on about how much hipsters would pay for a straight razor shave.
He was hearing this conversation as he heard most things, seated elegently, poised between the iron sharp angles of the olive table cloth. It matched the sag in his hair, the way the bangs seemed to emulate the balancing act the table cloth played, as it settled into the beginnings of a raucous evening.
Seated at the bar were two old school chums,Robert Patrick Sullivan and Van Grady Sharboneau. Van had squandered his fathers fortune into a chain store empire of punk barbershops, and made a lot of money doing it, even if half of it did go off to pay the child support for the three kids sheltered away up at Hammond, until the first thaw came in, and the kids ran around the town touching their silvery moneyd elbows into the flatbush back alleys of rural Lordstown.
He thought about the squandering, Lenny did, and he sat as his childhood friends boasted and bragged of bedazzling sentimentality, weaving it thick like cotton candy on a the tepid edge of a blade.
His thoughts trailed off during these sessions, as he often did. He would slip away in the middle of dinner, while sitting at the Bistro on this February evening. His thoughts would turn to his own creative ideas, ones that only came to him after the third glass of merlot, after Van would spill his, and chuckle at the angle the waiter would attack the stain, with a dozen starched white napkins. Spread out like a bloody piece of oragami, they would get a big kick out of it, while Lenny sipped his and entertained thoughts of what he was going to do now that the divorce papers had been signed.
Hed be a poet, then if she'll have me and make the morning run into Anchorage, if Ihe could find his way back to Montana. He'd take the railroad and guitar and just get out. Play, move around, love women who struggle, make babies and live in a log cabin along the banks of a defrosted river, run warm with heat, love and the knowledge that awaits like the first frost that come and destroys all of yer crops.
But the voice changed, and Robert piped in.
Lenny regained composure, he was at his local, afterall. The first frost had arrived, and the daughters were home from school This was his chance to get out and see more, alone and free, moving though the long stretched cabins of the Combine train, sleek in the way it came out of the tunnel roaring at 85 mph.
Hed sit on the dining car composing sesistans while dreaming of bedding the single rich women of the gentry. They'd voyage down from Canada each winter. Too cold for the rich, theyd say over conversation.
But Lenny was still at the bar, listening to Van go on about how much hipsters would pay for a straight razor shave.
posted by Kronski | 8:32 PM
1 Comments:
I truly enjoyed this one a lot. It was similar to the enjoyment one feels after the first, smooth drink of Hazlenut Brown Rogue Ale. I felt satisfied with this piece because of its speed of delivery and use of quickly, but detailed descriptions. I would only caution to use similies more sparingly and not in similar setups. Through in some metaphors, or whatever other descriptive devices use lit types us. I wonder if this piece would be the lone beer in a six pack, or part of the whole...
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