Drinking Whisky with Leon Trotsky Trout
by JACK C. BUCK
Can’t leave the apartment to take out the trash. Got the whole neighborhood asking me why I’m not at work. Neighbors down the way never go inside. They’re from the south, just moved up north this past June.
“Everybody sits outside down there, always have.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
Been waiting for a guy to come by for going on an hour now. Selling my air conditioner to him for a good price. Both of us win.
Being fired last week from my job got me thinking again. I was thinking about the grand scheme of things. I know this isn’t new news, but we are all going to fucking die and all we do is sleep and work. All we do. If only man was given time to think and pursue. Given such little time in between the time he is off work and at home and when he exhaustively falls asleep, there isn’t much time there, is there? Perhaps three hours, four hours at best? I’m back from the dead this week. I’ve read three novels and had the energy to even exercise. Whatever happened to meeting at cafes, drinking strong coffee to talk and talk through the evening and night?
They don’t want us doing that, do they. Otherwise, they may get nervous about us. Probably send one of theirs over here to listen in, to tell em what’s what and who’s who.
Then Raymond said, “Did you know less than 30 percent of history teachers in the country studied the subject in college? Also, I thought whisky had an ‘e’ in it.”
“There ya go,” I replied. “Fuck it.”
Both of the men now looking down.
All we do.