Major Mite was a disturbing fellow.
Somehow I'd always find him around
corners when I'd be walking
downtown. And he would tell me things.
Bizarre things. Like one time, must have
been a thursday, he assured me that,
"It sure is funny sometimes how
shaving cream can taste like the sea."
Generally, I would respond to such
things with a little queerness of my
own. But, I happened to know that
people like these tended to fallow you
when you chose to talk to them, or they
at least came around to bumming a fag.
Now his friend Hammelton, the junkie
and artist who was less punctual in
the art deco revival of the early nineties
than most, was there as well from time
to time. This was a guy who had to have
murdered his parents, or something. You
could just see it in his shitty idiot's grin.
He was one to enjoy a game of
tennis. He would always ask me for a
play. I supposed, for obvious reasons,
that his friend was never able to
finish a match, but my pity for them
could never run that deep in me. I'd
shake it saying not today.
Years past, and I noticed that I'd never
see them anymore. I began to miss
that anxiety of the downtown. In fact,
I remember not seeing much of anyone at
all. It seemed that people were simply
disappearing. I had let my hair grow
long, and found a great taste in
style. Though my clothing somehow
left the general public with something
more to be desired. Sometimes, on rare
occasions, I would see people. I'd try to
find a friend in those. None of them really
cared for me though. I'd end up playing
solitaire, and buying two coffees for myself.