Novella :

In descending order, alphabetical

By Pablo D'Stair

[Part 7]

The music section was all but deserted except for some fat guy, hair in a tangled ponytail, pushing a cart around slowly with items to put back in place or reprice or whatever, he meanwhile touching through the rows of CDs, not looking for anything but looking for something that looked good, the same as he tended to do, most everything seemed pitiful, who would want any of it and who took the time to record any of it, he wanted to choke thinking of some of the lousy music he heard around, speakers, restaurants, wanted to do something about how the dumb people who had recorded it were all of them so proud of themselves, but there wasn't anything to do about, let them be proud of it, they were monsters, scabs over the whites of their eyes, the pupils crisped in place.

He listened to some tracks off of a Kinks album since the place had headphones and you could scan anything to hear a sample.

David Watts, he listened to that twice and then Harry Rag, which he hoped would get stuck in his head, wondered why he hardly ever thought about the guy more often and when it got to "And when he pulls his frilly nylon panties right up tight" in Dedicated Follower Of Fashion he realised he was not only jerking in bobs to the songs, but was mouthing the words and in his head was in imitation of the singer's grated voice to that line.

A girl, very cute, over by whatever those books were, was looking at him, smiling, waiting to see would he see her and so what the did he care? the alcohol helping but he didn't care, anyway, held her eyes long enough without burning that when he turned down his head and scanned another CD he knew it was certain the impression he had made.

So he listened to two whole songs off of More Songs About Buildings And Food, knowing he would have to find something else to do or else the charm of his seeming like some bustout music fan who didn't give a damn how he came across when he listened to music or anything would be soured, he decided the thing would be to buy a notebook, not passing the girl directly, but making sure to bite a look down the aisle he knew she was still in, quick and move on, but quick like he wanted it to be telegraphed, obvious and no mistake what it was about, that he wanted to seem like he was looking for her on purpose.

Of course, going down the escalator he knew they would only have ugly notebooks, journals really, which could make him seem like a complete blowhard who carried around his journal to write in at a bookstore, but this is something he could explain his way out of and also, he injected this thought quickly, look at him, he was a dump, it was more than obvious he had vomited sometime in the last twelve hours, no matter who was looking or however brief, so his appeal must have been in that he was a rake and looked a cretin, it would be hilarious to that girl up there if he let on he had to buy a journal because that was just the exact sort of situation he was up against all day long all the time.

In line he was humming, or more sipping the words in and out between almost closed teeth "And when I lay on my pillow at night, I dream I can fight like David Watts" over and over and also had a real urge to listen to Nineteen Sixty Nine by The Stooges, that or Back Of The Shell from The Kills, that or something else.

He had a sweet chat with the older woman ringing him out, glancing back up toward the escalator top to see was maybe he being observed, got worried the girl would just think he had left and had not even bothered to verify, so that meant she didn't care.

He was glad he had the whole conversation with the older woman about did he need it gift wrapped and No he did not, he was just heading up to the café and had forgot his notebook at home, needed something, because the lady had been nice and he imagined she had not thought he seemed inebriated.

The girl was in there now, looking at some movies, which put him in mind he should go over, maybe the thing to do was just be out with it, he had the whole plan of what to say, how he would up and tell her with "Would it be alright if I asked you your name and that's all?" and if she went as far as giving her name out he would off the cuff with "In case you don't hear it enough, I'm sure you do, but just so you know in case no one has bothered to tell you, you are sinfully beautiful, a haunt, it's something you should be told all the time" and the thought on and on trailed in to just trying to come up with what could be the most intriguingly worded compliment, still cryptic but not so much it was just confusing, he could lay out all over her, quick, then walk away, even leave his coat and all, just to have had the chance to be the guy who did that, even if she just mocked him like some nobody to her friends later, she couldn't get away from the fact it was a thing she would always remember, mock him or not, and she would look for him all the time, even irritated by him far after there was no point to be.

***

He did not entirely discount the idea of being struck just all of a sudden by some synopsis, but had made the bones of a list, Roman numerals one through eight, because he did not feel like arguing around with himself about more than eight of these things, eight would be his escape hatch, if it came to more than that it was better to abandon ship to begin with.

The directory Videohound's Golden Movie Retriever was not broken into films by genre, though was cross-referenced in back, but the indexes made him weary and added to that why would he want to spend so long flipping back and forth, index to page, numbing, when it was supposed to be from the hip?

Kept getting sidetracked with questions like how could Late Marriage only get two out of four bones and all manner of ridiculous ratings he could not fathom and got him seething, the first few things with absolute horrible ratings, designated in this directory by the word "Woof", all capital letters and an exclamation point, were comedies or things not described in terms of their story, but in terms of having lousy production, things described as messy or incoherent.

And he was picking at the side of his thumb with the long nail of the index finger of that hand, a habit he hated but could not lose, it would eventually draw blood, his concentration broken, very irritating, because when it did draw blood it was impossible to clot up, and he never understood why this was, some cuts you press down count ten and they're gone or at least not flowing, others you just let alone, the blood cakes and clots everything, but when he got in at the skin of his thumb side it just bled and bled, got all over everywhere and nothing to do for it, sit there sucking on it like a hlf-wit, fingertip would prune and nothing would have happened.

The third thing on his list, after this and that, was Driller Killer and as he wrote the title he reread the second title on the list and turned back to the synopsis, it could work, that one might be fine.

Outside for a cigarette and he didn't want to pay for the directory or he would just head home and roll another joint, which he should have thought of, tapped through the cigarettes in the packet just in the off chance he had been inspired enough to have slipped one in there and forgot about it, nothing.

And now there were all sorts of machines cutting at the side of that building over there and at that swatch of old parking lot, about three dozen people all standing around and seemed to have something to do with it, watching the progress and talking with their hands to their ears, idiots, what a waste of time of a life, doing things like that, a waste of time of a life, he would, if he found himself in that position, leave and turn his back on the door, vanish until he washed up nobody someplace because anything would be better.

This got him smiling, but in a mean way.

The thing about Driller Killer was it said it was about a painter, other than that he was falling for it hard, because now that he was on his third cigarette every other movie on his list really seemed less and less his thing.

But maybe it was the point to have it be about a painter, as it was not like he had written, actually written, plays about painters, other than the one, the two, it was that it was all he tended to think up.

But this painter going around at night killing some people with a drill and then like nothing he's some worthless guy doing paintings all day, it was a nice swamp for him to scratch dialogue through, it was the sort of sour and defeated he felt and felt the world was, a wasp for him to pinch dead and sore fingers from.

Without meaning to, he started another cigarette going and wanted a slug from the flask, but he would wait, another coffee to disguise everything. It actually could work, no law against his play being about a painter and killing people with a drill, or he could just make it a hammer, a hammer claw, but he sort of liked the drill aspect.

The thing could go a sequence of scenes: here's the guy, whoever, he was still stuck on the name Remus, here was Remus, just a conversation with someone a bus stop, it's cold, waiting out a bus and then here's Remus painting and then here he is with a cigarette outside by a public telephone where some guy's just having a conversation, Remus just the cigarette and then back in studio going at a painting and with the radio on a different thirty seconds whatever of a song each time.

He actually stomped his foot and felt a surge up in his chest, let smoke down out his nose and could have started to laugh, happy, but it would have watered his eyes and no one would know what in Christ's name to do for him, think he was breaking down outside of the Borders Books.

Inside, meaning to head to the table but too excited, going around the shelves, using the toilet, washing his face and washing his face, smoothing hair, roughing hair, it was the exact thing he needed to write, it was blunt and tick tock and no one would know what to do about it the sort of immense build of a throat punch as it would keep on.

The stage would go black abruptly after the first conversation, then lights would up on the studio set, Remus walks in from the dark, sets the drill down and up with the brush, starts slathering paint, thick and bloated, a canvas, several canvases, maybe there wouldn't even be a canvas on the stage, he would just swing the brush, tap it, all like he was painting, his clothes getting spattered in paint and then the stage would go black, light up on Remus by the telephone guy or whatever, black, lights up on studio and Remus in, sets down drill, starts painting, only in addition to the spattered paint, he is dirtier in splotches, gets more paint all over him, lights out, up on next scene, out, studio, in and sets down drill, even dirtier, radio playing and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on.

The scenes could be anything, the roughest glimpses, just the vaguest life the better, the studio scenes no dialogue or anything, a television on, a radio on, and the painter guy, Remus, gets filthier with paint and blood and paint and blood and on and on like nothing is going to stop and then the lights go up on some scene, say a scene in front of a Pawn and Loan or something, just three people having a conversation, no Remus, black, lights up on studio, no Remus, lights go black.

He was breathing really hard-the idea, it was exactly why he felt it all the way he felt.