Courtleigh Drive

I share a flat with Christopher on Courtleigh Drive.  It’s lonely and grey.  Soon will come springtime and Christopher will pass his Series 7.  He’ll enter a new economic strata and leave.  Now Chris has left.  I’m no longer just lonely, but am alone as well.  The meager wages I earn as a security guard are insufficient to shoulder the price of my now partially vacant two bedroom affair.  I’ll move my belongings and bad dreams upstairs to an unfurnished single.  I’ll pull my armoire up the staircase by myself.  One step at a time, while I squat on my haunches like a one man rowing team.  I’ll finally understand the plight of all the sperm-less salmon amputees driven by instinct.  Soon I’ll begin cooking freebase cocaine in my kitchen, often by the light of my opened refrigerator at 3am.  The scenario will change from lonely and alone, to lonely, alone, and chalk white…Ghostly, emaciated, and with vertebrae showing.  I will seldom change from my dirty cotton kimono, and the only conversations I keep, will be the ones with my late night black & white twelve inch Admiral.  I will lust for the Carpeteria carpet spokeswoman and will scowl at Hugh Slate, the front man for the law offices of Slate and Leoni, whose specialty is helping those on the verge of economic suicide and moral bankruptcy.  Lonely, alone, and chalk white is no place to call home.