30 January 2008

No Man

0


There is a man in a telephone booth yelling into a receiver. Sticky, jaundiced glass. No cell phone, shit. Desperation. Flashing whites of eyes, polyester suit, animated gestures. Frustration delivered onto a street. Just released from prison.
From one to the next, a moment confined. A trapped caricature drawing deep breaths behind glass under the spatting on and off streetlight. No identification man. He must have been notified through someone. Not all bridges smoldering. The post office has a certified letter. It's my letter. This outlet will not issue the certified letter without identification.

He is waiting. A ‘does not have’. No references. He has an alliance, a friend who is an ex-convict too, but with an address. They are calling to get answers. There is a discussion that is not going as needed. They are nearly loiterers, or will be when the other end of the phone disconnects. Doesn't care. Doesn't have time. Don't care what. The call to someone who can't be bothered, ended.
When the last sparkle disappears the mission will be called off. Crossed off, like a delivery and pick-up schedule. A thinning list, patience thinning, crossing off and adding-up to desperation. All not in vain. All in search of one letter. Waiting in, waiting out.


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