Holy moly!

TUESDAY — Walking around town, unwinding from too much work for too many days, I started saying out loud, "Holy moly," and soon, "Holy moly!" with an exclamation point. Call it silly, stupid, childlike, pathetic — choose your adjective. They all apply. 

I was saying and shouting this for no reason, but if you try it yourself you might agree that it's fun to say. Go ahead, say it — say "Holy moly!" out loud, in an amazed tone of voice.

I said it on the sidewalk, shouted it at the bus stop, whispered it on the bus, and said it again in the store, at the park, on the subway platform, and on the subway. When I got home, I shouted it from the fire escape. "Holy moly!" 

On the fire escape, people on the street looked up. Everywhere else, some people stared, and most people tried to ignore me. The response is only some of the fun, though. It's fun saying "holy moly," even if nobody notices but me.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Coming into the hotel, I observed a probable violation of city, state, and federal law: A woman was at the registration desk, inquiring about a room, and Mr Patel told her, "We have no vacancies."

That's not true. 410, down the hall from my room, is still empty, and I saw the guy in 402 carrying stuff out this morning.

It's illegal, and ought to be, for a landlord to refuse tenants based on certain factors, and that woman was black.

Still, sometimes it's not about color or gender, even if it's a black woman. The landlord did the right thing, I'd say. That lady's skirt was too short, her boots too shiny, her face under extreme makeup… She was a hooker, I think, and I think Mr Patel thought so too.

Sorry, but life is a series of snap judgments. If it wasn't, everything would take too long.

Goes without saying that prostitutes perform a valuable public service, often under unpleasant circumstances or customers, and their work shouldn't be illegal.

Once upon a bad time, though, I lived in a hooker hotel, and I would prefer not to again. If that woman rented a room here, it would be unpleasant for everyone on her floor.

Whatever agency you're supposed to call to report the crime I witnessed, will not be getting a call from me.

♦ ♦ ♦  


I just met the man who lives in the next room. Through the thin, hollow walls, many times I've heard his Mexican soap operas. I've heard him moaning and masturbating too, though he doesn't do it loudly. To eavesdrop, I need to turn my radio off and be very quiet myself.

I was coming back from the toilet when he came bounding up the stairs, carrying crutches, so we said hello, shook hands, traded names, and I immediately forgot his but still remember mine. Then he unlocked his door and went into his room, and I walked into mine.

He's built beefy and wasn't limping, so I wondered but didn't ask, what's with the crutches?

And what was his name again? Dang, can't remember. To me he'll always be Mr Mexican Soap Operas Too Loud. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Must've bitten my tongue in my sleep last night. There's been a bit of tongue-flesh hanging loose from the underside, hurting slightly but mostly just annoying me cuz it feels funny.

You don't think much about your tongue, but you get used to its shape, and today it's been shaped wrong, with an extra flap slapping against the inside of my lip.

Last thing before turning in, I stuck out my tongue and examined the flesh-flap hanging off it. It felt huge in my mouth all day, but looking at it in the mirror it was tiny, the size of a piece of rice, so carefully I cut it off with my toenail clippers.

From Pathetic Life #24
Tuesday & Wednesday,
May 14 - 15, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

No comments:

Post a Comment

🚨🚨 If you have problems posting a comment, please click here for help. 🚨🚨