Straggling down Mississippi Ave on an overheated afternoon, donning black Chuck Taylors, baggy jeans, a loose denim shirt unbuttoned over a black tee, a baseball cap, and a three-day shadow, a man in his early sixties slipped a bottle of vodka from his front pocket and took another swig. Screwing the cap back on and returning the bottle discreetly to his pocket, the man, pausing to spit a gob of phlegm onto the median, introduced himself to a couple seated on a bench, casually mentioning that he was K*C*, drummer from the legendary but aging punk band BhS. Slow to the punch line but a steady wit, K*C* chatted up the couple regarding hippies and punks, riches and debauchery, touring and bands, pausing to spit a gob before detailing what life had been like in the glory daze, wiping his mouth while smiling a row of well-maintained teeth and informing the couple that every night it was a "different city, different girl, different pizza, different beer."
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It's there beside the couch, moving. Speaking in a foreign tongue. It's a shadow speaking, black and calm. Soon I begin to understand the words, they tell a story. I can see the story, as you always do while being read to. Described is a time from my life, long ago. Long ago, familiar, and gone.
Shadows are weather. And weather is like that…
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