The Dirtbag Vernacular [Original Novel]

ENTRY 23

On a Sunday afternoon I drive over to Frank and Molly’s. They’ve moved into a slightly larger apartment in their building on the third floor. We are all supposed to meet up at a barbecue at another New Orleans transplant’s house, a guy named Brady. Frank is at work and I’ll be driving Molly over there.

It’s been a week since Molly stayed at my place on the couch. I walk up to her, try to draw her close. She steps away, “No…, I can’t…I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. I mean, I live with him and I’m involved with you. You guys are best friends. I just can’t do it anymore.”

“You were supposed to break up with him don’t you remember? Do you remember we both agreed? And after that I broke up with Linda, but you still haven’t broken up with him.”

“Yeah, I just can’t do this. I mean, where am I gonna live? This is just too much for me”

We ride in silence over to the barbecue. It’s pretty hard for me to get into the rollicking atmosphere of the barbeque. Hard to enjoy drinking, rocking to the music and hanging with the good friends there.

The next day I call Molly at work. I try to talk her into meeting me but she declines. I drive the Peugeot home and after parking I walk immediately to the nearest liquor store, go to the back, to the refrigerated section, open the door and grab four big bottles of Chimay Ale. I walk back up to the counter, place the bottles on it. I am seriously hurting at this point. I am surprised to see a look of pity on the face of the cashier. I guess I must look pretty distraught, with my countenance displaying pain.

I sit in a chair staring out the window onto Masonic Street. I watch traffic, girls, dirtbags, people waiting for the bus. People riding the bus, their faces staring out the windows, look back at me. Sitting numb I down the ale with the Damned’s Machine Gun Etiquette blaring on a boom box behind me.


Photo by Hoffacurse