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Authors: Mark Safranko
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trouble of fighting a battle you obviously weren’t going to win.”
“I could have won it if I stayed there and battled it out.”
“Whatever. But if you saw it my way, you’d understand that I was actually defending you, Liv…. ”
You can’t really ever win an argument with a woman, but most of the time I could at least half convince Olivia Aphrodite of my intentions. Other times it wasn’t so easy, and the row would drag on into the wee hours, until I’d find myself crawling off to bed well after Carson and Tom Snyder put the lid on another day of disappointment for America, wondering about the point of it all….
Meanwhile, as the balmy days coasted by in a slow train of circus balloons, I had the eerie sensation of tumbling headlong into a sort of cotton-headed limbo. I’d wake up to the lazy symphony of the birds and the tranquil spectacle of the sun’s golden rays pouring through the window, and I had to question where in the world I was headed…. Livy, too. Because I knew we couldn’t go on like this—completely without direction—forever. Since Ihad little to do during the days but read my books and newspapers and magazines, it couldn’t escape me that people younger than myself had already achieved worldwide recognition for their achievements. That the illustrious careers of some were already long over by the time they reached my age. That such towering figures as Mozart and Alexander the Great had already brought the world—or at least some portion of it—to its knees in homage. What had I done, by contrast? Nothing. Not the crappiest little thing. Dreams and plans and resolutions added up to less than zero. Worse, I had no idea what to do, or even what I was capable of doing—if I was capable of doing anything at all. Where in the world had I come by the idea that I possessed some sort of illustrious future as an artist in the first place—me, a product of the ethnic ghetto, the offspring of blue-collar drones who’d had to struggle for their daily bread from the cradle straight on through to the grave? What gall! What stupid audacity! What ludicrous castles built in the air! The fact was that I had no discernible talent. Through all the years of school and shit jobs, no one had ever given me the slightest encouragement of my abilities, let alone genius, except for a handful of club owners who needed cheap background music for their patrons and bosses who took on Neanderthals to stuff their trucks….
Then I’d look at Livy, asleep there beside me, and I’d slowly drag my fingers over her perfect tits to the heavy black down between her legs, and all my anguish seemed completely ridiculous.
After all, what were a few million words more or less on this earth? Why fret over posterity when the sun, as I’d read somewhere, is certain to run out of hydrogen and commence dying in one billion, one hundred million years? On that day, who was going to remember the purveyors of measly words?
In life, you can’t ask for the moon and the planets. It’s definitelybest to learn to be content with the small things, if you can. Only a few lucky ones—the Rockefellers and Gettys and Mellons—hold winning lottery tickets.
No, none of it was worth taking too seriously. Hadn’t I realized the deep uselessness of existence a long time ago? Most definitely I had, when I was just a little kid and first took notice of what was going on all around me. I decided to live with that essential truth in mind.
Until the next attachment Livy decided to jettison—her job at the Purple Turtle.
That night she came home in a high snit. What happened? I wanted to know.
“I’m not going into it! I just decided I’ve had enough. I don’t want to spend my life waiting tables for jerks and fools. Anything wrong with that?”
“Not a thing. I’m the last one to blame you for wanting your freedom. So what are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know—maybe you can think of something.”
What it added up to
“I could have won it if I stayed there and battled it out.”
“Whatever. But if you saw it my way, you’d understand that I was actually defending you, Liv…. ”
You can’t really ever win an argument with a woman, but most of the time I could at least half convince Olivia Aphrodite of my intentions. Other times it wasn’t so easy, and the row would drag on into the wee hours, until I’d find myself crawling off to bed well after Carson and Tom Snyder put the lid on another day of disappointment for America, wondering about the point of it all….
Meanwhile, as the balmy days coasted by in a slow train of circus balloons, I had the eerie sensation of tumbling headlong into a sort of cotton-headed limbo. I’d wake up to the lazy symphony of the birds and the tranquil spectacle of the sun’s golden rays pouring through the window, and I had to question where in the world I was headed…. Livy, too. Because I knew we couldn’t go on like this—completely without direction—forever. Since Ihad little to do during the days but read my books and newspapers and magazines, it couldn’t escape me that people younger than myself had already achieved worldwide recognition for their achievements. That the illustrious careers of some were already long over by the time they reached my age. That such towering figures as Mozart and Alexander the Great had already brought the world—or at least some portion of it—to its knees in homage. What had I done, by contrast? Nothing. Not the crappiest little thing. Dreams and plans and resolutions added up to less than zero. Worse, I had no idea what to do, or even what I was capable of doing—if I was capable of doing anything at all. Where in the world had I come by the idea that I possessed some sort of illustrious future as an artist in the first place—me, a product of the ethnic ghetto, the offspring of blue-collar drones who’d had to struggle for their daily bread from the cradle straight on through to the grave? What gall! What stupid audacity! What ludicrous castles built in the air! The fact was that I had no discernible talent. Through all the years of school and shit jobs, no one had ever given me the slightest encouragement of my abilities, let alone genius, except for a handful of club owners who needed cheap background music for their patrons and bosses who took on Neanderthals to stuff their trucks….
Then I’d look at Livy, asleep there beside me, and I’d slowly drag my fingers over her perfect tits to the heavy black down between her legs, and all my anguish seemed completely ridiculous.
After all, what were a few million words more or less on this earth? Why fret over posterity when the sun, as I’d read somewhere, is certain to run out of hydrogen and commence dying in one billion, one hundred million years? On that day, who was going to remember the purveyors of measly words?
In life, you can’t ask for the moon and the planets. It’s definitelybest to learn to be content with the small things, if you can. Only a few lucky ones—the Rockefellers and Gettys and Mellons—hold winning lottery tickets.
No, none of it was worth taking too seriously. Hadn’t I realized the deep uselessness of existence a long time ago? Most definitely I had, when I was just a little kid and first took notice of what was going on all around me. I decided to live with that essential truth in mind.
Until the next attachment Livy decided to jettison—her job at the Purple Turtle.
That night she came home in a high snit. What happened? I wanted to know.
“I’m not going into it! I just decided I’ve had enough. I don’t want to spend my life waiting tables for jerks and fools. Anything wrong with that?”
“Not a thing. I’m the last one to blame you for wanting your freedom. So what are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know—maybe you can think of something.”
What it added up to
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