Pessimism
Everyone called him Tom now, because they were lazy and he didnt care
The rain smashed down against the hood of his 56 Bel Air like a hundred angry hooves. It seeped and dribbled through the dirty cracks in the windshield, puddling on the dash and running down into the glove compartment, doubtlessly soaking his notebook with the bookies numbers in it. He was trying fruitlessly to get the engine to turn over but it refused to budge, like the line up to the dirty movie theater. Across the street a pharmacys neon tubes hummed and burned harsh blue holes into the night, some girl stood behind the counter in a dove white outfit. On the fifteenth attempt to get the car started (a steady flow of swearing didnt seem to motivate it any) he decided to let this sleeping dog lie and pulled out his beaten leather wallet to see how much he had left after three days of constant boozing. There his face stared back at him from the drivers license.
Thomas Brennan it read, reminding him of mother when she had the wooden spoon ready for him. Everyone called him Tom now, because they were lazy and he didnt care. They could have called him Sally and hed have responded. Brennan opened the wallet further and imagined moths flying out. Lincolns green face was crumpled and flattened and crumpled and flattened again inside, couched in lint and grit. That assassinated bastard would have to last till Friday evening when he could pawn his gun, which made three more nights of scraping the barrel, maybe soaking bread in kerosene.
Things needed to be done, important things, like eating. This became uncomfortably clear when Brennans stomach twisted as if it were caught between a subway car and the platform. The last solid thing that had entered his stomach was a burned and greasy piece of toast with some rancid butter smeared over it yesterday afternoon.
The pharmacys open sign seemed to glow brighter as he glanced over to it. He threw his weight against the decrepit cars door to force it open, it had a tendency to jam and this had become a part of the routine for getting out, regardless as to whether it truly required the violent action. Immediately he stepped into a deep pool of water and soaked his worn leather shoes. They were a gift from one of his ex-wives back when he was respectable. She was either dead or happy now. The water penetrated the soft leather and quickly into thin socks, sending twinges through his body. He thought of how you were never supposed to have wet feet because it would make you catch cold, and how at this point that would have been a nice excuse to stay in bed all day. Brennan stumbled across the slick street and into the pharmacy.
The dark confines of the Bel Air made it seem like a beacon of cleanliness and warmth but now once the bell on the door had cracked its tinkling ring into his aching head the pharmacy took on a new guise of a run down greasy spoon with dust and dirt rounding out the corners. The beautiful buxom waitress had aged and weathered. Her breasts sagged along with the acne-scarred skin under her eyes. Hard shadows fell like drop cloths from the fluorescent lights, accentuating each uncomfortable crease. He sat himself down on one of the hard vinyl stools, choosing the least stained and torn one, it rocked to near dangerous angles but he managed to stay balanced.
The waitress listlessly pulled her bloodshot eyes over towards him in a gesture of questioning and irritation. He ordered a cup of coffee with sugar and cream (he always meant to order black coffee, as it would make him seem tougher, but he found it bitter and he always forgot) and a bowl of cream of mushroom soup. Brennan slid a yellowing tabloid from the pile at the side of the counter and idly flipped through the scandals and rapes. After an expectedly long time the coffee and soup arrived. He scolded himself for ordering a soup that was so easy to hide bodily fluids in, but ate quickly nonetheless. Both the coffee and the soup were tepid at best, cold in patches; he had no room for tips. Soon the cup and bowl were empty, his bladder and stomach at least somewhat filled. The five didnt net him as much change as hed have liked, the broad had probably stolen a tip for herself.
Too late now to complain, he thought. Brennan collected his change and creaked out of the diner. He had barely made his way outside when his stomach was again seized by cramps, this time a hundred times worse. He clutched at his gut. He forgot that the curb dropped down and misjudged his step. He stumbled and tripped into the gutter, which was filling up with garbage and water. The water washed over him and he vomited and fell asleep.
Thomas Brennan it read, reminding him of mother when she had the wooden spoon ready for him. Everyone called him Tom now, because they were lazy and he didnt care. They could have called him Sally and hed have responded. Brennan opened the wallet further and imagined moths flying out. Lincolns green face was crumpled and flattened and crumpled and flattened again inside, couched in lint and grit. That assassinated bastard would have to last till Friday evening when he could pawn his gun, which made three more nights of scraping the barrel, maybe soaking bread in kerosene.
Things needed to be done, important things, like eating. This became uncomfortably clear when Brennans stomach twisted as if it were caught between a subway car and the platform. The last solid thing that had entered his stomach was a burned and greasy piece of toast with some rancid butter smeared over it yesterday afternoon.
The pharmacys open sign seemed to glow brighter as he glanced over to it. He threw his weight against the decrepit cars door to force it open, it had a tendency to jam and this had become a part of the routine for getting out, regardless as to whether it truly required the violent action. Immediately he stepped into a deep pool of water and soaked his worn leather shoes. They were a gift from one of his ex-wives back when he was respectable. She was either dead or happy now. The water penetrated the soft leather and quickly into thin socks, sending twinges through his body. He thought of how you were never supposed to have wet feet because it would make you catch cold, and how at this point that would have been a nice excuse to stay in bed all day. Brennan stumbled across the slick street and into the pharmacy.
The dark confines of the Bel Air made it seem like a beacon of cleanliness and warmth but now once the bell on the door had cracked its tinkling ring into his aching head the pharmacy took on a new guise of a run down greasy spoon with dust and dirt rounding out the corners. The beautiful buxom waitress had aged and weathered. Her breasts sagged along with the acne-scarred skin under her eyes. Hard shadows fell like drop cloths from the fluorescent lights, accentuating each uncomfortable crease. He sat himself down on one of the hard vinyl stools, choosing the least stained and torn one, it rocked to near dangerous angles but he managed to stay balanced.
The waitress listlessly pulled her bloodshot eyes over towards him in a gesture of questioning and irritation. He ordered a cup of coffee with sugar and cream (he always meant to order black coffee, as it would make him seem tougher, but he found it bitter and he always forgot) and a bowl of cream of mushroom soup. Brennan slid a yellowing tabloid from the pile at the side of the counter and idly flipped through the scandals and rapes. After an expectedly long time the coffee and soup arrived. He scolded himself for ordering a soup that was so easy to hide bodily fluids in, but ate quickly nonetheless. Both the coffee and the soup were tepid at best, cold in patches; he had no room for tips. Soon the cup and bowl were empty, his bladder and stomach at least somewhat filled. The five didnt net him as much change as hed have liked, the broad had probably stolen a tip for herself.
Too late now to complain, he thought. Brennan collected his change and creaked out of the diner. He had barely made his way outside when his stomach was again seized by cramps, this time a hundred times worse. He clutched at his gut. He forgot that the curb dropped down and misjudged his step. He stumbled and tripped into the gutter, which was filling up with garbage and water. The water washed over him and he vomited and fell asleep.