I have been writing about Martians for the last few days, and it seems more plausible Martians planted the seed of humanity on Earth than all of the funny business about the hand of God in the Book of Genesis.
The Martian bit was too technical though, it gave me a headache.
When writing on scientific work it's difficult to avoid plagiarizing because you're writing about others' theories, not yours. Shit like— Doctor Popov revealed this and that, and he wrote the law of, blah, blah, blah.
I never in my life, not for a moment understood or appreciated science. Sure there's a big need for it, but the only thing I can think of, worse than writing scientifically, is going to church— which is like an hour in jail.
Hail Ceasar, give me the arts, there are seven forms.
Painting— is way too expensive and messy.
Sculpture— too much physical work, like working construction.
Architecture— a nine to five job, and, and if you fuck up your technical drawings, thousands will die when your creation collapses.
Cinema— I wouldn’t know where to begin.
Music— It takes too much eye and hand coordination to read music and finger the keyboard at the same time.
Theater— If you’re not gay, forget it.
We married the day we met, blinded by booze and sex.
A few days into the marriage we woke in our hotel room, feeling like strangers. It was little more than a brief tryst, which she bankrolled thank God.
For the last six months, Winona Swiftwater and I have been living in my Key West bungalow. She’s a Calusa Indian— we're pals and lovers, laughing our asses off at peculiar shit only the weird appreciate.
Surely we're the only people in the world beating the magic tom-tom to reruns of the Lawrence Welk Show.
Winona quit her job when we shacked up, the system chaps her ass. Skins are psychically different from White people.
Well, I’m a Paleface who doesn’t get it, the system that is. I’ve never punched a clock, I’m self-employed, and the bulk of my income comes from selling kilos of marijuana to a couple of street dealers.
I don’t make money writing, regardless, I write most the time— when I'm not being hassled.
I connect with the characters in my stories— as far as real people go, initially, the upfront stuff is fine, but after twenty minutes, I find an excuse to escape and make for the door.
Lucia, my one-time Cuban wife, was an extrovert, I hung out with her friends because I was with her.
She didn’t get it, why I preferred being alone in my study writing— writers are loners.
Luck saved me from Lucia, I escaped her when she ran away. I never got her drift, sussing her was like looking into the sun.
Now she lives in my head and nothing short of a lobotomy is going to get her out.
Christians say if you hate someone pray for them and it will absolve your hate— thus freeing you from the hold that person has on you.
Rarely, but occasionally, I despise a person enough to pray for them, even though I’m an atheist.
The prayers go nowhere— it's a huge effort for me to pray but I try, what the fuck?
A serious atheist would no more pray than jump into a pit of Copperheads. I'm a half-ass atheist.
Winona cooks brunch at noon— fry bread, corn, beans and squash, fresh salmon, and wild rice.
It's morning in our house, I make Mexican coffee, freshly brewed with a dash of tequila, some Kailua, and hot milk.
I have an appointment with a social worker at Monroe County Social Clinic in downtown Key West a two. I get SSA payments monthly— I fake being psycho to get the check, the act is half the fun.
Winona and I shower and braid our hair, double braids, dressing casually. Winona can wear my clothes— we wear white and pink Ts, khaki shorts, and mismatched flip-flops.
Winona drives the Vespa— she goes north on Flagger Ave. to 11th, in Newtown, parking in the lot of the state clinic. We walk the steps to the 3rd floor. The tallest building in the city is La Concha Key West, built by Cubans before the revolution in 1922.
There's a slew of ragged-looking people waiting to see a social worker, some playing with their cell phones, and others staring blankly at the wall. Some are actually ill and others are faking it. The social workers and shrinks are there to weed out the frauds and help those who need it.
I check in with the receptionist, showing her my Social Security card, she assigns me a number, 003 saying,
Mr. Lucowski you’ll be seeing Miss Betty Bootlick in room 411. Listen for your number.
Winona and I sit on plastic chairs, bolted to the glossy grey-painted floor.
You can hear a dime drop, there are two Black security guards ready to pounce on anybody who gets out of line. Everyone in the waiting room except the truly insane is scared shitless of them.
The room feels like a factory, and it smells like disinfectant. Winona says softly,
this is awful Henry, and he whispers back,
the bullshit is worth the extra two grand a month, and I enjoy the show.
In forty minutes 003 is called and I walk to room 411, the door is open, and I go inside, sitting in front of Miss Bootlick who’s at her desk. She gets right down to business.
Henry, how are things going on a daily basis?
Ma’am, up and down, some days I can’t get out of bed. When I'm depressed I can't get my thing up.
Your thing?
Yeah, my penis.
Have you been taking your Escitalopram?
Oh yeah, religiously,
Henry's lying, he'd give the pills to the bums who hung around outside the clinic.
How bout your social life Henry?
I’m different, I don’t fit in with people.
Can you focus on a task?
If I look at something too closely I get blackouts and migraines,
You'll have to talk to Doctor Dick, he can give you something for that. How's your temperament?
The other day I was in Wiki Wiki, and I brought a super lime Slurpee to the counter, it was $2.45, I only had $2.25, I asked the witch if she'd let me slide for the rest and she says,
we don’t give charity to bums pal, take a hike.
So I lobbed the Slurpee at her and ran for it.
I see Henry, I’m going to recommend another six months of SSA payments, and, and I think you should see Doctor Dick.
Finishing, he signs something without looking at it, trying to maintain a low profile. The Black security guards are eyeballing him, they eyeball everyone to generate the fear vibe in the waiting room.
Henry and Winona, walk downstairs to the parking lot. He drives directly to the finest steak house in town— Viva Argentina, they order the best of everything, knowing two grand of SSA funny money is on the way.
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