The highway depopulated during Mr. Junk Kary’s lightly careening philiafur-ride. Thoughts meandering, not unlike his car, to the direction of cinnamon and the tastes of must.

“Sugar n’ spice… gimme something tart” he thought. Smog looked fat lolling in the soon-to-be-curtained sky. A slow motion coming in on a chariot of bloodied goats. Junk felt foreign, no, worse than foreign, alien. He tightened the reigns and off shot the cerveaurian flowers, flauntingly fertile. A snap of highway running through his old thoughts. He’d wonder about the race of humans, however different from everything else they might seem, some connections remained. Maybe in thousands of years of evolution. What if there had been an Earth as is, or more appropriately, as was, and then a different race of different capabilities arrived. Perhaps dinosaurs were conveniently exterminated before the humans could nest. Those great creatures of before might have come from another place as well. It might be possible that the Earth was not much more than a hotel for passing species… “Draw your own conclusions” concluded Junk to the imaginary guests he didn’t entertain. Time for a break.

Junk’s gaping eyes traced sky-wiring, the sort that’s strung December 25th style across the regurgitated woods man makes. Women make them too (and he insisted on the superior taste of women). He knew it involved communication, the wires, but on what surface would that thought scratch? That being his problem to avoid, he veered off the highway in time to stop at a cafe.

The Cup O Joe $.60 cafe had not heard the old fashioned rule, survival of the fittest. Its figure had gone long without any metabolic conditioning; still, permanence fumes floated outward from every leak in the roof and walls. Junk walked to the door and swung it wide. He walked in, one heal determined to contact the floor. The heal scuffed with a sound that could almost be considered distinguished. ‘Course for such a sound to be distinguished the shoes would have to cost more, shine brightly, and be hitting marble rather than linoleum. A man bent over a bar stool, turned slightly to face Junk,

Hey, watcha carryin’?

To himself, Junk thought, “one helluva rumour” but only slipped a half smile saying “My pet, she’s no good for me.” Junk absently summoned his arm into the air and tossed an imaginary something to the man. The man dramatized a catch and let the invisible ball splat against his chest, signaling heartbreak. The man probably thought it was a ball but Junk viewed it more on the terms of a bomb (of the type that seem simple but still fuck you up, were it to go off).

Junk took a seat next to the man and asked the waitress to bring him a meal similar to the man’s. It could’ve been a good way to continue communication, but Junk didn’t actually care to talk. The man sat with a grin on his open mouth, his stool still steered in Junk’s direction. Junk pretended to concentrate on his food at first but then turned to face the man thinking that there would have to be a few more words spoken before he could relax. Had he voluntarily sat beside the man, a show of good-will and puppets in mumble-combat could’ve sated anything. A bit of spittle erupted (accident but not altogether abnormal) like liquefied and undeveloped film from the man’s mouth. A brief and wet signal yes, but mostly this pleasure (stutter on the “p” please) afforded by the man’s mouth prepared the genesis of further dullness.

So I got a little hot, and more than bothered, yaknow, so I was pacin’ back and forth and, so I thought to myself… got to get outta here.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Junk said, almost slurring to the man.

Sometimes you just get hot. Real hot. One time I was wearing this brand new pair of shoes, I mean to say that I’d just bought them that day. It was so hot that I walked right out of my house and you know the funny thing is that I came here, right here–dang!

Uh-huh.

Ever since then, I kept coming here. Mostly I come here when it’s hot though. I guess I’m usually pretty hot.

I don’t like the heat much, myself.

Hahaha, yaknow what else? Today’s a cold day! Today I bought a new pair of shoes but I’m not wearing them now. They’re mine though, n’ I like ‘em. Whew, think I’ll have some more coffee.

Junk looked down feigning admiration of the man’s shoes though he knew they weren’t the new pair. Noticing the untied laces had staunchly undergone their share of mud groping, he returned his attention to his own cup of coffee and swallowed a resigned dose. It was enough for the moment that he’d admired the man’s shoes, which seemed to sum up their conversation. Alas, the safety to eat.

The man ate noisily with his mouth open, a fork in his right hand, and a napkin in his left. The left hand made two or three trips to the man’s lips and vicinity every other mouthful of food. A very quick process that could go undetected in a dream were the dream not Junk’s.

Junk finished the meal on his plate then started with his cup of coffee, taking a deep inhale of the yawning vapors. Coffee was probably his favorite part. Akin to the color brown, a simple cup of coffee possessed all of nature’s warm-hearted intelligentsia, not to mention its cold-outside-but-I’m-gazing-at-the-fireplace quality. So abundant are the drink’s attributes. Junk thought about hitting the road.

This was published here on Saturday, 26 February 2005 at 11:27 and is filed under Junk Culture. You may leave a response, or trackback from your own site.