There's nothing noteworthy about it.
Just another nameless man in step with the rest of the desperate millions,
at home for now but not for long,
because with him the heart is never really alright with being anywhere for more than a few months at a time,
or at least so it would seem.
Now as if in a dream he spits the ass end of a camel onto the shitstained welcome mat,
swings open the door,
and strides inside,
ignoring the rack of loud brochures shouting about a bunch of unattractive local attractions,
the dusty synthetic flora planted in handmade and painted clay pots said to be spun up by the daughter of the owner of the dispensary down the street,
the framed photos on the wall singing the sepia praises of how much of a hellraisin hotspot this here little motor lodge used to be,
the knockoff keurig machine,
of course,
and all else that makes motel lobbies feel so cold and callously demoralizing to people with hopes and goals and souls.
It would seem he doesn't give a shit about any of this,
if you didn't see the latest update in between the lines.
At the front desk he tolls the little bell till appears the woman with busted up English and a very large pair barely contained by a tight white wifebeater.
He makes a mental note to strike that last line before setting the verse live,
then counts down fifteen twenties onto a particleboard flattop finished in the cheapest veneer money can buy.
In return,
she provides a receipt permitting another 7 days on the premises,
and he exits the office and ambles back over to the Wetterhorn suite — Room #7,
the sweet spot his heart is (absent his permission) tragically planning to abandon in a whole lot less than 7 days.
If something here seems noteworthy,
don't write home about it.
I always try to do my best but every single time despite my best efforts the man in the mirror does whatever he wishes and his wishes are always against me. I did my best at work but he decided to get me fired on a technicality. I paid my rent on time all the time yet he found a way to get me evicted anyway. I did everything to love her as best as I could and to make her happy but he drove a wedge in between us and now she's gone and on top of that she thinks I'm a monster. I could go on and on and on about all this but it doesn't matter so I won't. The only thing that matters is hiding the pistol in a place where the man in the mirror won't think to look. I know just the place. It's either going to save my life or get me killed real good. I put my hands on the sink and send sadness down the drain for what feels like an hour. When I finally look back up I realize the reason it felt like an hour is because that's about how long it was. And in that hour I see my face has made a few changes. I'm not the one reflecting anymore. The man in the mirror appears in my stead staring back at me like a madman.
Why are you looking at me like that?
said the man in the mirror.
I'm your friend.
No you're not,
I said.
You fucking terrify me.
Terror is no barrier to friendship. If you overcome your fear, we could go places.
You're the last person I ever want to go anywhere with.
And yet here we are again, despite your best efforts.
I never invited you, you just showed up.
Absence of invitation equals invitation to crash, am I right?
No. What you are though is crazy.
Says the severely mentally ill alcoholic.
Fuck you.
Maybe later, I just got head for a song from the woman with busted up English so I'm good till tomorrow morning at least.
That's not what I meant you fucking madman.
I know, and I don't care.
Well at least we're on the same page with the not caring thing.
Ah! So friendship it is, then?
No fucking way.
You sure about that?
Hundred percent.
Alrighty then, I guess.
I heard where you hid the pistol. Wake up cause it's time for us to go find it.