Friday, April 07, 2006

Voices in my head....

Sometimes random bits of dialogue fall out of my head. Usually at the oddest times. They'll have no connection to what I'm doing, or what I was thinking about or working on. It's almost as if there is a tv tuner in my head and there's some old guy with his hand on the remote. -- he's about a 12-pack into the day, and he has a twitch.

Here's an example: I was taking the trash out tonight... just walking a plastic bag to the can, and this fell out of my head:


A Mobster and woman are in a hotel room. It's after and she's getting dressed. He's sitting by the window, in slacks and a wife beater t-shirt. His shoes, socks and shirt are on the floor in a staggered line between the door and the bed. She's sitting on the bed adjusting her stockings before putting her shoes on. The light from the window throws his shadow across the floor. He's a big guy; mid-forties, thick black hair combed straight back so that it almost completely hides the male pattern baldness. She retrieves her shoes from his shadow and puts them on. After she's dressed she picks up his shirt and socks and puts them on the bed. His shoes she sets next to the dresser.

Then she goes to the mirrored wall behind the sink and checks her face. As she's applying her make up she looks at his reflection, over her shoulder in the mirror.

“So, we been doin' this for what, three months now?” she says. “You never talk about home. You don't talk about your family....”

“Whatta you want to know?” he asks.

“I don't know. How's your wife?”

“Perfect,” he answers and looks out the window. “She's perfect.”

“You love her?” she asks around her lipstick tube, working on her bottom lip.

He looks back at her. “Do I love her? What the hell kind'a whore question is that? Yeah, I love her. You think I'd keep showin' up here, bangin' you, I didn't love her? Christ...” He hammers his cigarette out in the ashtray and gets up. “Do I love her? Don't you ever ask me that again...”

He's throwing on his shirt as she puts her lipstick away and turns from the mirror to face him.

“So, you love her, but you don't sleep with her?”

He won't look at her eyes. “... I sleep with her.”

“Yeah, you sleep with her...but you don't fuck her. Does she even let you touch her?”

“Hey, you watch your mouth, awright? This is you and me here; not me and her.” He sits to put on his socks and shoes. He's quiet for a few seconds. “She don't need some big ape crawling all over her... sweating all over her.... She don't need that. I told you, she's perfect.”

Somewhere in my head there must be a story this belongs to... Who are these two and what happens next....?

Beats me.... maybe I'll find out while I'm washing the car.

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