Secret Clay Pot

I awoke with heavy breath and bags under my eyes. My body wanted calories. I checked the frigde; Serbian plum wine and pasta sauce. It was early morning so I opted for the pasta sauce. I took a few spoons full and put it back disgusted. Wholly bachelorized. I managed to clean up, put on jeans and a black shirt (the uniform) and wander into the humid stolid heat.

After work, I went to the roof to catch a smoke with the weeds and concrete and oils of the rooftop garden where Z had the corn growing in his grid of certainty. When I knocked on his door to get the key, he was trimming his nose hairs. He looked up and motioned coy with tool in hand. I laughed out loud, not for the sight, although it was comical, rather for the ongoing conversation about nose hairs and how to dispatch them. I yank them out with fury. I like the sneeze it produces. In general I hate mechanical shit – all so primitive. I don’t care how long the batteries last, you still have to store the damn thing, maintain it, drive it, plug it in. I laughed at Z’s mock but felt exhausted. “I need the key, I’m fading.” He delivered.

From up there I watched that dirty moon rise and leaned on the brick running my fingers across the rough edges. I watched it again in sinister silence as it cut up the hazy sky. The heat was still rising from the rooftop. Along the pipes someone had affixed a sticker that read, “DO NOT: Defecate Here”. It looked like it belonged But I disobeyed anyway and made a turd right there on the roof. I felt awful about doing that so I scooped it up with some loose tar and flung it over the edge. It hit the asphalt before I got up on the ledge to see it land but I saw where it hit having separated from the tar flap on descent near the cabinet maker’s entrance where the pick-up is usually parked. I was glad the truck wasn’t there or I’d have to explain about the wild shit flinging baboon living on the premises. When the moon had risen past the golden hour I left for the bar.

I sat to watch the Baseball derby and ordered a tequila.
“Hi,” I said to the girl sitting on my left. We bantered and I looked for something keen or decent in the girl but instead we talked about tequila.
“Is it good?” I asked.
“Yea, I don’t know. We wanted the frozen kind.”
“Frozen is silly.”
“It’s what?” She didn’t hear me.
“It’s silly,” her friend added eavesdropping.
“It’s silly,” I repeated. “Plus that guy on the end of the bar just bought your whole round. You should of ordered premium.” Which was true, the guy, Ditch or some shit the bartender was calling him, bought the girls a round before they got to the bar. By the look on her face she didn’t know what premium meant.
“Do you come here often?” She asked. I raised my brow and smiled. She was young.
“I live close to here, so yes, I come here often enough.”
She didn’t know what to say next so I started writing this and watched the derby. I picked a good moment to do so as Josh Hamilton smashed 28 homerun balls in a row in Yankee's Stadium.
“Jesus Christ, this guy is hot.” She looked confused.
“This boy’s about to make a record.” The barkeep started talking up his knowledge about the Rays and drugs and all that nonsense. I was just happy to see him smash one nearly out of the park, never mind 28.
I had closed the tab but decided to celebrate with another round as the girls went off to table, Ditch in tow.
“Enjoy your night,” the woman added on her way past. I thought that was a nice thing to say, I wish she had started with that line.
“You too, enjoy it.” And then the new piece hit me.