Boo

Boo would drink six beers and practice tricks until punch-in time.  Invent an eternal detective armed with throwing star lashes, put her on the trail of a fugitive—he'd run ‘til the cliff dropped or the blade sliced his neck.  Or he’d just repeat something, like Marilyn, Marilyn, and I suppose go through every image ‘til there were no more—then she’d be gone, and that was another trick.  I’d be playing rummy while he vocalized—he’d start from scratch: name the fluid, name the bubbles, the permeating feeling.  Make a sound to signify mind-travel to a ceiling fan, microwave color-scraps as they originate in linoleum and travel into the ragged weeds colonizing the broken joints of what we called our office.  He hadn't even clocked in.  Just going on with words I didn’t even know, articulating concepts I'd probably never learn.  He seemed both happy and a little frightened.  Frightened by happiness maybe.

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