The last time I saw Barry I was no more than a kid who occasionally shaved. I still remember the way he entered the room. There was something about him that brought all conversation and activity to come to a complete, awestricken stand still. His hair tied back modestly, glossy and healthy against the collarless, black silken shirt. I could never forget him.
Here am I, again in the presence of that heralded human. He sits not ten feet from me in a small coffee shop. I wonder, as I try to study, what he is drinking. What is he thinking? Even after graduating from college I know I’m a nobody next to him. I mean, you don’t just walk up and strike up a conversation with a guy like that. You better have something profound to tell him or bring an infant to be blessed by him. I wish I could just look at him, but my head is uncovered and I can’t easily remove my shoes. My breath is short as he heads for the door. The displaced air from his movement is sweet in my nostrils. He is gone.
The last time I saw Barry I didn’t understand him. I still don’t and I probably never will.
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3 comments:
this real good post.
vely fruny.
vunderfall in the divan a la salon carre at the louvre. the museum, not the coffee shop shooting gallery of a whore show.
gernittt. danka danka danka SHIN.
adieu.
Did you really see Barry?
Yes, I saw Barry. He was little changed.
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