Horatio watch dogs 212/27/2023 ![]() Beautiful people were a dime a dozen, and when they spouted their college-learned philosophy, I stopped listening. He was handsome, sure, oddly so, but that wasn’t everything. They talk without saying anything at all. He used his entire body to make a point, hands punching the air to punctuate his words, pacing back and forth, head bowed as he talked and talked. People didn’t always understand what he was talking about-maybe they never understood any of it-but when he talked, when he got going, it was hard to look away. It made him want to talk, to explain the secrets of the universe as he saw them. I’d learn later that he always did this when he got drunk or stoned. Some were nude.Īnd there he was in all his glory, holding court on the brown and crunchy grass, his disciples laid out around him, their attention rapt. I went out back instead, walking through the kitchen to the sliding doors that led to a yard with a pool. I didn’t, only because people blocked it, a man and woman, her hand down the front of his pants, wrist slowly moving up and down. Home, maybe, to the apartment above the record store. Some people said my name, and I nodded in response, never stopping, never slowing. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was smiling, smiling. A woman was topless, her breasts bouncing as she jumped up and down. People sat on couches and chairs and the floor. The crowd was immense, people dancing and singing at the tops of their lungs, writhing with each other. The house smelled like sweat and beer and weed. I’m still nineteen, but I don’t feel as lost anymore. ![]() I did the same because I was trying to fit in. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but I’d been standing in a group and he’d said, “Hey, I’m having a party this weekend, y’all coming?” and everyone nodded. It’d taken me hours to work up the courage to go to the party. I walked into a house at the end of a street, music blaring so loud that it rattled my teeth. It was always going to be something,” he says again, and I wonder if he’s trying to convince me or himself. And we’ll go on and on until there’s nothing left. See it through, you know? All the way to the end.” They’ve taken matters into their own hands. There’s nothing like it when he’s worked up. He’s alive and bright and beautiful in ways I can’t always describe. If he goes on long enough, his hands will start flailing, his eyes wide, spittle on his lip. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we are. We’re here, and it’s a flash of light before it fades away back into nothing. His hand goes back to his lap, palm up, fingers curled. They forgot to turn it off with all the lights. I don’t know if anyone is even at the radio station anymore. Over and over again, in an endless cycle. ![]() But it’s the only song being played right now. I’m tired of it, even if it’s only been out for a few months. ![]() The Knack singing ‘My Sharona’ fades to barely audible levels. He reaches out to one of the radio knobs. For weeks, you know? It almost doesn’t matter what happens.” He says, “I’ve thought about what today means. It crawls from his belly up to his chest and throat and pours from his mouth, rusty and cracked and loud, lips pulled back over his teeth. He says, “Harry, look, look, it’s right there.” He’s got that little smile on his face, the one that means trouble, the one that means he wouldn’t mind if I put my hand on his lap and squeezed until his face filled with blood, mouth open as he panted. Jamie is all lines: his legs, long and thin his dark hair, hanging around his face and onto the collar of his Chambray shirt, the buttons mismatched, but we don’t care the sharp relief of his jaw, the patchy stubble bony fingers, the knuckles thick with wiry hair. Because I’m looking at him, cool and relaxed in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other laying on his thigh. Everyone's happy.(IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE) Wrench is excited that he can share his love of spikes and tattoos with someone else, but has no idea how to actually woo her.
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