Thursday, July 5, 2012

Where do we go oh oh oh . . .From here?



Julian Philip Ellis awoke on his twenty-eighth birthday to the recorded cheers and glitchy bass line of his favorite dub step song. He smiled at the other side of his bed, which was empty but for some spent condom wrappers and a folded piece of legal paper.


Julian didn't have to work on his birthday, so he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and stepped from his cozy bedroom into the cavernous living room of the loft he shared with his friend Jennifer Marie Ambuloo (Jenn, generally speaking) --an older woman he'd met online some five years ago.


The loft was rent controlled all the way back to her great-great-grandfather lawyer.


The remains of two hand made piƱatas hung from the rafters, and the wan light of a Detroit February made patches between the cones of warm antique floor lamps. Faces hidden from the light, slumped on and around the papasan couch clusters were the still passed out bodies --a mixture of his and hers friends, then all smiling, all inebriated; all good acquaintances, now.


Julian passed through the MDMA Bosche painting of a living room, smiling faintly, careful not to tread on any unclaimed candy, and came to the kitchen section of the wall southern wall. He pulled down a gallon of water and prepped the gigantic, ancient coffee machine: turning nobs and pulling brass levers and spotless steel nozzles into position. As the coffee machinery beast began gurgling, he rubbed his belly with his right hand and swiped with solid clinks the handles of a half dozen or so glass mugs onto the post-humanly long fingers of his right; he set the mugs carefully under spigots and spouts, or around   the lowered nozzles. He smiled as the black ichor started to drip into the mugs.


There came the expected, loud bump from somewhere in the beast's bowels as the thick coffee reached the end of the dispenser line and things began to slush and gurgle back onto themselves in its guts. The bump must've woken someone, as a delicate groan floated from the closest cluster of couches.


"Coffee?" Was the next sound, though Julian couldn't be certain who it came from.


He replied anyway, "Yup," and, "I'll be starting the bacon and eggs soon, so if the smell's off putting..." 


A pixie with orange hair and indian warpaint shot bolt upright. "Bacon?'


"Bacon."


"Holy shit! Bacon!" and then there she was, shredded black shirt, no pants or pigment, and wide red eyes. "Bacon? Seriously?" She was pressed against Julian's chest, her tiny, pointed, nose pressed against the underside of his chin.


"Seriously seriously." Julian smiled, wrapping her in his blanket like an patchwork Dracularian cape.