I worked the late shift at a gas station. This was back in the blurry years between 96 and 99. There was a nightly AA meeting around the corner. Every night after the meeting let out, an old-timer would come in, glance at the empty coffee pot next to the beer cooler and ask if I planned to make any coffee that night. He had anxious eyes and wore an old satin windbreaker and always looked like he was cold.
Making coffee was one of my very few duties as a gas station clerk but I didn’t drink coffee yet so I didn’t appreciate its import or know how to make it. I was too busy chain-smoking Kools, staring out the window, and writing terrible poetry. Really bad stuff that I actually set on fire a few years later. So nobody who came to the Amoco had any coffee and if they did, it was from a cold pot set out earlier in the afternoon. A few customers offered to make it themselves but I didn’t know where the materials were kept. I was a bastard back then and sometimes I wish I could find that sad guy in the windbreaker, apologize, and make him an amazing pot of fancy coffee.
I’d like to be a little beacon of joy for my father, chipper and zen and awake at six in the morning eating a piece of fruit. Instead, I stay up late reading Schopenhauer.
When the body rebels, the mind realizes it’s been preoccupied with the wrong things. A Greek word for inflammation of the lung, pneumonia has been around since time. Hippocrates described it as “the illness named by the ancients.”
I watched the sun bleed over the mountains and experienced a magnificent panic attack.
One of the finest things I own is a lamp built from a stern brass pirate.
“A tantalizing 21st Century cross between Let Us Now Praise Famous Men and On the Road, this remarkable and utterly original memoir heralds the arrival of a new and important American voice. The Road to Somewhere will take you places you will not easily forget.”
A man believed his only chance at justice was to take a hostage and march him downtown. An idealistic dancer packed the theater yet the city cast her out. A search for their ghosts continues beneath the city.
You’ve seen her before. She’s the old woman with her eyes closed on the bus, the one who sits alone on a bench for hours. At night she listens to the exhausted air conditioners that sound like the sea, tuning in to the city’s static like an old radio show.
The Former Desk of the First Office of the Bureau of Manufactured History was unveiled at a ceremony on the third of May and continues to appear in unexpected locations throughout Indianapolis.