The gaggle of cameramen approached with little regard to whatever was around them. They stomped on daisies that were just planted last week. They overturned the pink flamingos that the little girl next door always petted while waiting for the bus every morning. They drug their shoes in the freshly planted sod of Mr. Anderson next door – the 78 year old Korean War veteran who hated all things television. I’m sure he’s getting a kick out of all of this.
Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.
Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.
“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.
The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.
“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.
The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.
“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.
“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”
“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”
“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”
I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.
That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.
She didn’t.
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