I was napping under the freeway in the bone city of Los Angeleez, when a man walked by and he stopped and he asked me “Who are you?” “Who am I?” I said. “Who are you?” “Who are we?” and next thing I knew we were in his flat uptown, drunk on red wine, listening to Charlie Parker through the radio. Charlie was manic panic writhing up and down his saxophone beneath the electronic fuzz. The man who took me in paced around his apartment aimlessly. He was a strange man – his books scattered across his cigarette floor. I asked him what he did for a living and he pretended not to hear me, I’m pretty sure.
The wine hit us hard and we laughed at the Bodhisattva residing in our hearts. We laughed at fleeting enlightenment and we bonded over cold Chicago. I passed out on the dirty floor, but in my haze, I heard his girl come home and ask who I am and they riffed for a minute, her asking if I was another junkie and he said “No, well, I don’t think so,” but they calmed down and I faded to black again.
When I woke up, I was alone in the apartment. A note had been placed on my chest “Don’t worry about locking up. No one would rob this shithole anyways,” and that was that. I gathered myself and caught the next train out of the city of angels.
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014