You can be faced with moments you could never describe, more times than any accountant could tally. In a world of infinite possibility, the strangest moments are those where there's nothing to say.
This is not to suggest that when nothing is said the moment is empty. That's the other trick; understanding why silence is golden. It ain't just about shutting up in a crowded theatre.
But god-damn if some nights don't throw you more than you know what to do with.
Last night, about 2 a.m. I was in the studio, and I thought I heard a knock on the glass door out in the hall, which is always locked, which allows the owner of the complex to claim it as a "secure building." Though a big glass front does not, in my mind, scream out "Impenetrable."
I wandered out of the apartment to see if it was in fact a knock on the door, because someone is always locking themselves out, and sure as shit, sitting out on the steps is this giant who lives on my hall.
Of course I let him in, and he thanks me profusely, then begins talking about his evenings adventures. I should point out that I don't think I have ever, either in all the madness I have witnessed, or in which I have directly participated, seen anyone this drunk & still standing. He continues on about his night, and at some point his hand wanders down the front of his sweat pants.
Of course all men must adjust, so I don't pay it any mind. Just like women are constantly tugging at & shifting their brassieres, so men must realign the cock, to aleviate discomfort.
What no man must do, and, to be completely clear on the matter, what no man should do, is stand in the hallway of his apartment building, at 2 a.m., talking to a neighbour, fully stroking and tugging on his cock.
I wasn't quite sure what to say, and why should I say anything? Wouldn't it be far funnier to see just how long he'll go on before he realizes what he's doing?
Eventually I can't cope any longer and I tell him, "Look, I'm gonna head in. Gotta get some sleep."
At this, he moves his hand forward, as if to give me the old High Five, then rolls his hand into a fist, for the Knuckle-Tap Handshake, and says, "I'd give you five, but I've been touching myself."
"Yeah." Is all I can muster. I then walk back into my apartment, and come dangerously close to having an aneurysm, attempting to hold in the violent, disturbed peals of laughter, which would surely wake my wife, and most of the neighbours.
