Fred Lester: day 1

The amount of time he didn’t have was nothing compared to the amount of time he did have since Fred Lester was going to live forever- not by choice, for the chain-smoking gambler could die at any moment, but because he had to. Fred Lester was the dynamic of human existence; a flare to the earth’s jacket which twinkled and showed itself to every star and sun. Nothing could, and nothing would replace Fred Lester. He stood in the turnabout entrance of a fine Las Vegas resort & casino perspiring, like soda bottle’s irritating sweat, from the plumes of steam which seemed to waft themselves out of his bold, black coffee, and pouring out of his mouth was the drumroll smoke of a cigarette drag- all together clouding his expressionless face. Fred Lester was of normal, nothing outstandish, features- including voice and sleeping patterns ( for a resident of Las Vegas, that is).  He lowered the cigarette from his mouth revealing a handsome face: striking, but not incredibly, blue eyes, flush lips and a quirky, satisfying nose which neither snouted or hung. Fred Lester was, in all practicality, a normal man. His only flaw was that he could not tell, or understand, time. A moment meant nothing more to him than a year.

Outside, the air was thick and everything tangible was sticky despite the midmorning drizzle which was a rarity in any case, however Lester remained crisp  holding his coffee- hotter than most mornings, in fact, scalding to touch- in his leather hands. His fingertips were smooth as the pavement he stood on, and by the looks of it the street-sweeper had come by and stripped away any living, or dead, organism that had been feasting upon it. His forehead was wet dripping sweat, probably liquor; stretching his pores, giving birth to dead alcohol, and it pained him. What first looked expressionless (his face) was actually a slight wince. But his wince feigned expressionlessness, for what was the point in showing his discomfort? He was a man of indulgence- a fact that he would pleasantly share were he asked.

@2 years ago

@2 years ago

Traffic tunnels…panoramic vortexes.

@2 years ago

@2 years ago

Table-side

Next thing I know I’m sitting in a Diner, Loretta’s Homemade. The salt shakers are just about empty and the drinks always come with under five ice cubes, but Olivia’s stalking teeth are enough to quench my cold thirst. The menu reads like a reference book; the life, and consumption rate of every available option from Loretta’s apple pie to Martin’s flapjack quesadilla and the house salad’s famous ranch dressing. The range is far too wide to expect great quality, but the environment is perfectly traditional. My eyes keep strolling through Olivia’s, take me under the table, body; the sloped trench between her breasts, the hike up to the viewpoints of her collarbones, and the wondrous adventure of the cave behind her arresting lips. Each time she softly expels a word I can’t help but take her with my batting eyes. Her hands are resting politely in her lap, across from me, on her strapless flowery dress. It’s summer. She’s summer. I wish I was in summer. No more can I sit on my trembling hands expecting them to caress only my own thigh. I pretend my leg is hers, how I would touch her and watch the colors on her face turn smoothly brighter, lighter. 

“You know, I’ve never cared much for pancakes. I think, maybe, it’s because of the starch,” she says, plainly. 

 As a child, my grandmother would make me her “famous” pancakes every time I would visit.

“Yeah, me either. I’m more of a lunchtime man.”

She wraps her tongue around the pink straw of her malted strawberry milkshake, pulls it into her mouth, and deflates her paunchy cheeks. There never seems to be a consistency in her body language. She’s stern, she’s limp. She’s girlish, she’s mother goose. I glance around the perimeter of the diner; nice place, really with the exception of the wall’s cracking paint which has begun to shed onto the wall-side tables and the green, indecipherable patterned carpet, but a vacuum could relieve that, the sheds. There are more booths than tables, the booths creating a bit of a maze to give the simple, apron-tied waitresses more of an illogical thought pattern to more persuade them that each day is not the same. The girl, Shelly, who’s waiting on my table has been dusting the same spot, near the cash register, in front of the open kitchen, by the penny tray for a good ten minutes. There is a man sitting at the bar in front of her, not five feet away, who has yet to look up from his small plate of food which he most certainly got before we had even arrived. There is a faint hum of music behind the grill, but other than that the only sounds come from Olivia and I, making somewhat uncomfortable conversation. I actually come here quite frequently, but I’m rather dubious about Loretta’s management. The waitresses sift through employment like flour.

I’m pulled back to Olivia. Sarcastically, she asks, “Is there a cook on call tonight? I believe he should be paged. I’m hungry.” 

@2 years ago