Today I met Bukowski. Or maybe it was Jim Harrison. Or maybe just someone else with all the manic cravings but none of the talent. He had a brown paper bag and he sat on the park bench without his shirt. He held open a leather-bound writing journal.
The water turned green over the past few days and the only way to see anything was by their tails. The thermometer hit 96 degrees and I stood on dried mud staring at glimpses of fish I knew I would not catch.
I walked by his bench and he tipped his bag at me. He could just be askew or maybe he was acknowledging a parallel situation, or the fact that any passerby would quicken their step to get past either one of us.
I could get out of this. A quick drive home and I’m back in regiment. I doubt he had any means of breaking down his frustrations into four pieces and locking them in a PVC tube under the hatchback.