The Can, a first page, first draft
Thursday, 5. November 2009, 08:58:41
Thursday, October 08, 2009
The Can, a first page, first draft
Coke, Coke, Coke!
Jimmy Rawls had a beer gut. He drank it occasionally of course , but never so much to warrant the protrusion. He walked all day besides – at least on weekends - climbing up and down nearly vertical steps and bellowing until he longed for a drink. Or two.
If you've ever been to a ball game, you surely know Jimmy: red cups of coke water arranged uniformly aside north poking wieners pillowed in cold, soggy buns; the functional box lashed to his neck by an accordion strap as he croons “hot daygs, ge et ya hot daygs heah!”, or “Coke, Coke, Coke!”, in quick blunt blasts.
If you've never been to the ball park, let me tell you who Jimmy is: he’s the middle aged, balding man in the vending truck, or behind the pop counter, who plops your order out while resting his meaty forearms on the edge with a safe, warming smile.
Safe as in childhood, even if he was never in yours; polite, yet unsweet. Friendly but impersonal, and endearing with the safety of impersonally familiar memory. Kind, as in “pay me on Tuesday”. He was Jimmy, you know, from the corner of Main and Maple.
The thing about Jimmy was, you never really knew him. He had no personal side and the fact was, no one ever really thought to ask. He liked it that way, and so did everyone else. They had their lives when the door swung shut behind them, and he when the apron strings were off, the lights were dimmed, and we were all on with ours. Jimmy did get on with his own.
Jimmy thought that he knew the final word. He watched people; he saw them. At the ball games, at the shop, and in his own privacy, he learned his lessons. He thought that word was life. We lived for Life, and that was all. The rest was our own idea of what life was supposed to be, and life begat itself.
So here he was now, standing at a faceless corner of Hindley Street in Adelaide. He was figuring out how he had arrived here, and why. Despite what he thought he knew he was not sure, though he was surely lost. And Life was his only guess.
The Can, a first page, first draft
Coke, Coke, Coke!
Jimmy Rawls had a beer gut. He drank it occasionally of course , but never so much to warrant the protrusion. He walked all day besides – at least on weekends - climbing up and down nearly vertical steps and bellowing until he longed for a drink. Or two.
If you've ever been to a ball game, you surely know Jimmy: red cups of coke water arranged uniformly aside north poking wieners pillowed in cold, soggy buns; the functional box lashed to his neck by an accordion strap as he croons “hot daygs, ge et ya hot daygs heah!”, or “Coke, Coke, Coke!”, in quick blunt blasts.
If you've never been to the ball park, let me tell you who Jimmy is: he’s the middle aged, balding man in the vending truck, or behind the pop counter, who plops your order out while resting his meaty forearms on the edge with a safe, warming smile.
Safe as in childhood, even if he was never in yours; polite, yet unsweet. Friendly but impersonal, and endearing with the safety of impersonally familiar memory. Kind, as in “pay me on Tuesday”. He was Jimmy, you know, from the corner of Main and Maple.
The thing about Jimmy was, you never really knew him. He had no personal side and the fact was, no one ever really thought to ask. He liked it that way, and so did everyone else. They had their lives when the door swung shut behind them, and he when the apron strings were off, the lights were dimmed, and we were all on with ours. Jimmy did get on with his own.
Jimmy thought that he knew the final word. He watched people; he saw them. At the ball games, at the shop, and in his own privacy, he learned his lessons. He thought that word was life. We lived for Life, and that was all. The rest was our own idea of what life was supposed to be, and life begat itself.
So here he was now, standing at a faceless corner of Hindley Street in Adelaide. He was figuring out how he had arrived here, and why. Despite what he thought he knew he was not sure, though he was surely lost. And Life was his only guess.
WIDGETIZE