Habit

 [ This is like a fan fiction sequel to The Holdovers. It's mostly prose and mostly fiction ].

 Hunham, after Barton, is traveling. Western Greece is crawling with nuns. Though he's been having minor stomach cramps, Paul drinks a tall glass of Peloponnese white, then ouzo. At 57, the sunsets are flashes, the sun a bulb blown out by the last sigh before the walk back to his bed. Whitewash shines through moonless hours. To his temporary home, he painstakingly steps up the hewn stairs, hips, knees and ankles hobbled in body ancient time.

_

I don't know how to write something like a story. Plain description or narration is difficult. 

Regular sentences don't seem to say what I'm thinking. 

_

Paul Hunham collapses into the desk chair. He writes, "Another long day... my pen is heavier than ever, and my eyelids are queerily askance at the moment. I must send myself into a dream promptly. The world is getting darker. I must say that the waiters waiting on me were exceptional in every way, looks, manners, conversation, you name it. Maybe my ability to notice such aspects of everyone around me has heightened. My attention seems shifted, as if the news reel of life were revised into a novel, an experimental character study, late in life. Am I an omniscient narrator? Very likely, no. Is everything else changing at a clip, or is it my mind? I know my body wants to give up and never get out of bed again. It could be a passing woe, just this aching night alone. Although lately I've felt like I am sailing a wild, unknown ocean. Unknowable is the word. And so I leave us with that. Signing off, 'til tomorrow, 

PH"

He leans back, looks left out of the glassless window.

It's 1972. This seacliff town has three bright lights that stay on all night. Paul pulls the lamp switch and passes out atop the sheets in his clothes. 

At 7:09 the dawn, having filled the bedroom, rouses Paul. He rolls onto his left side, smushes the pillow under his neck and relaxes every muscle. His sun-lit eyelids slide closed, left then right. 

This warm orange is a womb of return, in his creator squozen, never to be let go.

   End of Side 1

   Mary sat in the mess hall. She methodically put out the cigarette and walked to her desk, mind wandering along the skewed trajectories of her and hers lives.

She thought she wanted to put on a Thelonious Monk or a Miles Davis record. In the kitchen, she began a new cigarette. She cleaned a cast iron pan weighing 16 pounds. She barely felt it.

The black phone on the hall wall beside the kitchen door rang. It was Peggy, her very pregnant sister. Mary heard rain pouring on the other side of the line. Hi, Sis, are you busy or can I share a little with you?

I'm fine; I mean, what's going on with you?

Robert just got a flat tire, and I'm rushing around, just thinking about the good ol' days, you know?

Uh-huh, huh...

Three seconds of silence, Mary could hear her sister surround a sigh. And, well, Aunt Susie has - - passed...

Mary felt a deep yawn of emptiness inside, which almost crept into a smile. In her soul, a baby egg broke.

O, damn - sorry [not for Susie's passing but for saying damn]. She sucked a long drag of smoke. 

Peggy pronouncedly sighed, as much for Mary's sake. Anyway, I'm gonna run to my next appointment. 

How ya feeling?

I dunno. Not bad. My head's a little light.

Lunchtime. 

Yeah. Call you later, Mary, love you. 

I love you too. Click, humm. 

   She sauntered to the lukewarm oven, took out a bean casserole, sat and ate from it with a spoon. Her eyes reached toward the frost-filled windows, soaked in light. A shiver twisted in her. A bluebird tapped on a pane, flitted in place and rushed away.

End of Side 2

    Angus will carry coffees for himself and his Valentine, a recent graduate, Donna. They'll have been dating for a year and 3 months. Donna will wait for him to finish school, then they'll engage then marry the following spring. 

He will finish school in about 2 months, but if he doesn't, then it will be another 9 months. Donna's mother will tell her, "Angus could be so bright. I'll be hoping and praying that he will see through on his commitments; he must tidy himself and demand perfect order from the life he leads...." 

"O, Mother, when will you learn?"

Angus and Donna'll dance at the Snowman's Ball, each more embarrassed than the next...

The tide will turn, all between beings being equal.

Change Mediums

Paul has octopus and oily angel hair. Mary ran down the snowy Main Road slope. Angus shall beget books and children. Whether home or astray 

Youth follows Age.

The End