The HIgh-Road

Henry in his apartment, sitting, looking at his lap top and thinking he wanted to eat. 

He ordered a bowl of potato-leek soup and a Bud-Light. Chaims was empty, it was the end of the month, allot of folks in Henry’s neighborhood broke.   

Henry tipped  Ruby something, his regular waitress at Chiams. On his way out Chaim says to Henry, “What about them Mets?”  Henry shrugged and walked out the door. 

Henry not flush so a massage was out 

He was bone-tired of the bars on the Bowery, green at the smell of piss and puke, done-in at the sight of bloodied bums hitting the pavement.  

He walked for an hour or so making his way to Times Square, quit the show, drag-queens, junks and midnight cowboys. A lady-boy wearing tie-died overalls and a multi-colored wig says, “Wanna party?” Henry asking her if she had Cocaine?  She says “Dear I’m a professional cock-sucker, don’t insult me.” 

Henry thinking —  great, a gratified cock-sucker. 

Henry eyeing the marque at the New Amsterdam Theater notices a John Cocteau film “The  Blood of the Poet” is playing.  Buying a ticket, slouching as he walks to the front row, sitting down, then walking slouched over with a bottle in his hand to the front row. He the wild Turkey mixed with Robitussin out of his vest-pocket. The mix just right the slow moving, cartoon-like, surreal Cocteau film. Henry enjoyed the ongoing motif of suicide and violence, and a scene where a young son escapes his mothers whining by levitating and hovering on the ceiling.  

He figured the film was a Cocteau opium dream.

He took a taxi home, done-in from the Wild Turkey and Robitussin mix. 

Henry opting for the high-road tonight, passing on a “Professional blow-job,” going to an art film instead.