Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.
I’d see him around. When we spoke on the side walk, his eyes would slowly shut like a fade-out in a black and white movie.
He’d been drafted into the band because of his ability to score high quality heroin and for his collection of intimidatingly expensive Gretsch guitars.
He couldn’t really play, but he owned a 1962 White Falcon double cutaway with a Bigsby tailpiece. Everybody wanted to fuck him.
He probably couldn’t perform, in bed. He wasn’t bad onstage. Lots of leaping and kicking and suchlike. The band had to get a second guitar player, a low-key dude with a yellow Les Paul Junior who could really haul ass. Our hero looked great, but couldn’t play shit.
He could score the shit, though. So much fucking heroin. Pharmaceutical MDMA. Vicodin. Blow. On the sidewalk, drifting in and out. His family was heavy duty money and took care of him, generally. Sometimes you’d see him selling his records to buy dope. It was mostly a passive exercise to demonstrate to others just how fantastic his vinyl collection was. PiL’s Metal Box. That weird Half Japanese set.
I can remember talking to some girls. Re-educated high school cheerleaders who started wearing stripey tights and Doc Martens and digging Mudhoney when it all became unavoidable. I mentioned how bad I felt about watching Our Hero fade away. How I went to his funeral without having much to say to him.
The girl said, “I would have punched him in the mouth. That would have woken him up.”
Everybody knows exactly what to do once the right time has passed. Everyone is the coolest fucking person in the world once the element of chance has vanished. No-one was around when it was time to be around, though.