Flâneur Fiction: "Detouring Vol. 2"

“Detouring: Vol. 2”

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

We are walking east now. We have crossed onto the south end of Live Oak, and have every intention of stopping by Danger's. I ask Adam if Romeo will be fucking Juliette any time soon.
"Maybe," he responds.

I start thinking about my blog. What little income I pull comes from doing articles for this magazine called Artology. I know fuck-all about art, but they like the pseudo-intellectual posturing, the prolixity, and verve of my style. Generally, I have no respect for visual art, and I hate writing for those golden-spoon in mouth troglodytes. But what they pay keeps me sheltered (if nothing else) in my poverty.

A couple of days ago, I got a call from Delaney about interviewing that guy who does all the body part shit. Let me say it: I hate interviewing people. Especially visual artists. Painters and Sculptors and shit. I hate smelling them, I hate hearing them breathe, and I especially hate talking to them. How many fucking times do I have to hear about Picasso or surrealism or expressionism, et al? Those are the ones who went to or go to school and feel that because they are so passionate about what they do and the history of it, that that must mean everyone else is. Wrong.

Then there are the “outsiders.” These talented but willfully ignorant assholes, one might say, are worse because they have a natural ability to convey their thoughts and emotions by way of visual communication, but they won’t go to school and apply themselves toward something more practical and lucrative.

But I shouldn’t be too critical about that. I dropped out of college. Delaney and a couple of the other editors have said several times that my ability as a writer is the only thing keeping me around, and if they thought they could find someone with a degree as experienced and dedicated as myself, they’d drop me like a clingy fuck-buddy.

On my blog I write about walking. Specifically, I write about being a Baudelairean flâneur. Except I don’t write poetry. Perhaps I’m Debordian? But I’m no revolutionary. I’m no philosopher. And I still don’t understand Howls for Sade. Rimbaud. He’s interesting. We share the same birthday. But I don’t write poetry.

Will Self.

I'm like Will Self. A sesquipedalian cum journalistic ambition. Eh, not even. He is a journalist. I’m just an amateur. I’m not even a good sesquipedalian. In person my vocabulary is limited unless I’ve spent time contemplating and mapping out responses.

For terse wit, that most Mametesque of verbal exchange, my vocabulary usually reflects that of the person who I am interacting with; drowning in colloquialism. Slang. Idiom. Cliché. Maxim.
“Really?” I think to myself.
“Nah.”

The longest distance I’d ever walked was from my apartment in East Dallas to the area of Oak Cliff where I grew up. According to Google Maps, the distance from my address to S. Hampton Rd. is slightly less than 11 miles. I don’t know. It was no London to New York City, that’s for certain.

We are walking away from the sun. It dips closer to the horizon and the clouds take on a darker hue. Adam pulls out his cell, transparent as its hot-pink cover has chipped away from abuse, attaches the number pad and dials. A sad state of affairs. I light another cigarette. The silence I was beginning to enjoy is now bugging me.
“I have an idea.”
“Danger’s not answering,” Adam says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. And then, “What?” A belated rejoinder.
“Let’s keep walking east,” I suggest.
“Why?”
“Why not?”

So the exchange goes.

Adam wants a cig. I acquiesce. He suggests we try knocking on Danger’s door. Again, I acquiesce. We step farther east, crossing Peak and turning south in the direction of Swiss.

Deep down I know that Danger will not answer. And why should he? He's probably splayed out drunk on his queen size bed while a nameless drunken barfly chick sits on the edge, a half empty bottle of vodka wedged between her ass and the incline of the indentation, snorting coke on one of those trendy coke mirrors one can purchase online or if so inclined: at Hot Topic. And of course, she won't answer because he implored her not to let anyone in, not even his mother, who she wouldn't know even if she saw her.

Bukowski-esque imagery aside, it's important to note that Danger himself is not a user. At least not anymore. He's now relegated himself to cigs and drink-- easy enough in his service oriented world; and the silence in answer to Adam's hammering fists upon the door are an ominous affirmation of the validity of my detailed supposition.
Adam looks at me and says, "Fuck."

We bear eastward on Swiss. We're broke, but not without hope. I ask Adam if he remembers the night we celebrated the 2008 presidential election. "Yeah," he says, "it all ended so quickly we had to take our sober asses to Elbow Room."

"Next time, we drink every time one of the candidates' names is mentioned."
"Next time it'll be over in half an hour if the Republicans put up who I think they will."
"No way they're that stupid," I add, now trying in earnest not to step on a crack, a difficult thing, considering the condition of the sidewalks on this particular stretch of Swiss before the Fitzhugh intersection.
"Remember the piss puddle race?" Adam asks. Laughingly, I say, “Wasn’t much of a contest. The streams ended up joining.”
“You giggle like a bitch when you’re drunk,” he said.

That much is true. We get to Fitzhugh and cut north to Live Oak. Adam tries to call Jameson (named after the whiskey). There’s no answer. Now he’s dialing random girls I’ve never heard of. We’re definitely looking to mooch. We need a hookup or we’re destined for Saturday night sobriety. Tragedy. Travesty. Prevailing travail.

I suggest to Adam that we make a stop at one of the bookstores I frequent. See who's working. He acquiesces, and we continue on our way. After the Munger intersection, the apartments that characterize many of the blocks on the west side of the street are replaced by large, looming mansions; open houses.
"If I had the cash...," Adam trails off.

"I'm getting a call," I say, digging in my pocket for my phone. I have 17 minutes remaining.
It's Jameson and he says that Adam's phone is a piece of shit, so he called me, and what do we fucking want because he's busy watching movies on his new big screen television. I relay to Adam. He laughs. "Daddy's boy."

Jameson tells me he's going to a party tonight and that if we're interested, he can come pick our broke, no car having asses up. I tell him that we'll consider it and get back to him. Now I have 14 minutes remaining. Such is the way of the prepaid phone.

We pick our heads up and follow the slight northeastern trend of Live Oak. The mansions and the leaning trees on either side of the street create an interesting fusion: man in the background of nature. The mansions seem dead or dying, longing for the inhabitance of human bodies, while the trees form a beautiful living canopy over the road so that when the sun comes out, a kaleidoscope effect is achieved.

On the southern side of the street, the first block we pass is Dumas St. It dead ends into Live Oak. Both sides, west and east, are bookended by fancy modern apartment homes. More prime real estate. Silence.

A little farther east, on the north side of Live Oak, Bryan Pkwy dead ends. Some more nice apartments, possibly expensive, with neatly groomed rows of shrubbery extending from both sides of the front doors to the sidewalk rest on the intersection.

“Fun,” Adam says.
“Fun?”
“Fun.”

I think for a moment.

“Oh. Yeah, being drunk and navigating that...” I start and then laugh. I pull out my cell phone and look at the time. My phone will start beeping soon as my battery bars are down to one. The next block is a light. Going south is Lindell Ave. and going north it is N. Beacon Ave.. The houses are older. Some of them are even deteriorating due to abandonment or negligence or both. The trees aren’t as prominent and the sidewalks look recently paved.

The next intersections are imbalanced and dead end as well: Hudson St. going north and Glendale going south. The sky is slightly darker, and we step cautiously across Live Oak and walk toward Ross Ave., which forks strangely, coming from the east there is an entrance going north, and an exit going west that comes from the north. Ross will eventually level into a east-west running street, but not before some jerky twists and turns.

We stand briefly on the grassy mound between the forks and he asks me about my story.
“I wish it was that simple. I have to interview the guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s fucking insane. They say the body parts are real. I don’t know. Jeff has refused to interview the guy. So they’re giving it to me.”
“You are the bitch.”

He’s right. I am Artology’s bitch. It depresses me. But what else is there for me? I’ve had worse luck than Adam on the publishing front. Tons of rejection letters. No money to self publish or start a mag. So fuck it. I’m getting frustrated. I want to keep walking. But now I’m not so certain I want to be in a bookstore; especially not one that is home to a local Writer’s Garret.

So we continue. A walk toward inspiration. There is a liquor store on the south side of Live Oak. At the next block, Live Oak will corner slightly to the northeast and become Skillman. A few shops up in this direction, and hidden by parking lots is a small street called La Vista. Tucked away in the back is a little bookstore.

We pull ourselves up the incline. There are boxes of tattered books along the sidewalk leading to the entrance. On the brick lined wall below dirty windows is poorly scrawled graffiti that reads: Buy your books here; learn how to read them elsewhere... we’re not your fucking teachers.

Rounding the corner, we are confronted with more boxes. Adam reaches into one of them and pulls out a MAD magazine. No price. Out in the open. He rolls it up and tucks it into his pocket.
"Is that the one where Alfred E. Neuman is featured prominently in all the cartoons?" I ask.
"Cartoons? This is art. Have you read MAD? Get your shit together."

In the immediate entrance, we are confronted by lavender walls, a staircase, elevator doors, stacks of books and racks of magazines-- tucked impractically between one wall and the right hand railing of the stairs-- events postings along the walls, and a solitary, dying rose in a vase on the in-table directly to the left of the door going into the secondary entrance.

The place smells of books. We both inhale deeply and exhale with relief. Adam disappears into the trade/paperbacks section, and I move forward to the counter. Milady is there. Literally. Her name is Milady. Hippie parents and such.

She recognizes me, and skipping the friendly smile, she jumps halfway over the counter to hug me. I laugh, we exchange greetings, and I ask her if her boyfriend is hiding somewhere amongst the gardening books, shelved behind me. Another laugh.
“I’m signing you up for open mic night sometime, I swear!” she exclaims.
“You’ll regret it.”
“So, what brings you here?”
“Just hanging with a friend. You?”

A glare. She asks me about this imaginary friend, and I make a smart remark about masturbation in the erotic fic section. Another glare. We talk about school; she’s taking a shit ton of classes and working at the bookstore on weekends. She asks about my latest female obsession (because I have a new one every time I see her).

“No comment,” I say.
“Must be serious.”
“You can say that. Here, let me introduce you to my friend. Strange! Get your ass in here!”
Her face strains with thought. Familiarity. Recognition. As if to say, “Strange?” Adam appears from around the the corner, and that is all she needs! She yells his first name gives him the same hug she gave me. Noticing the rolled up mag in his pocket, she tsks at him and he exclaims that it’s an Observer.

“Sure it is. Anyway, you guys wanna get some coffee or somethin’? I’m off soon,” she says, smiling.
“How do you know one another?” I inquire.

They met working at Elbow Room. Adam worked in the kitchen there for about a year. Milady was one of the several young women who waited tables briefly. Apparently he made several plays for her over the course of that time.

We shoot the shit across the street at that little convenience store on Skillman with the fancy tables and chairs in front of the entrance. She buys us coffee. We listen to her vent about her academic situation, her ridiculous boyfriend with ugly tattoos and natty dreds-- Adam’s description, not hers-- and her existential dilemma of what she wants to be when she grows up. She’s 29.

Adam is flirting with her. My opinion of her is sinking with every revelation. Not that I have any designs on her. She’s attractive, but I am more interested in having a female subject to bounce my personality off of as opposed to actually developing feelings for at this point.

Is this gratitude or torture? She buys me a coffee, so I have to listen to her carp and moan about things I care nothing about? No thanks. I’m getting antsy. I pull out my pack of cigs, offer both of them a smoke. She declines. Adam accepts. She tells me that she didn’t know that I smoke. They’re bad for you, of course. Thank you Raphaella Nader. Shit.

I’m looking at her differently. Like, I want to fucking kill her. Whine, whine, whine. On and on. Now she’s talking about how she’s personally happy that the city is cracking down on all those evil folk who enjoy a smoke now and then. Adam is becoming more and more silent. Probably realizing that he doesn’t know this woman at all.

A test.

“Ronald Reagan,” I say. “Discuss.”


© Patrick Patterson-Carroll

(2009)