Killed idea-grimace and enjoi:
Oscar Wilder was twenty-one and invincible. When he walked in the streets, he would kick lay-by cans and sneer at small children playing. On a mission of accomplishment, he seemed to have air vents in his tennis shoes, as he would glide and hover through the streets. Wilder’s home was scantily plaid, a shabby two bedroom adorned with dump furniture. He lived in Manhatten, Duvall Street, by the dry cleaners. Like an eternal conflict, the strong odor of the chemicals diffused the rust and smoke, ever burning. He was built tall, square, and compact. He liked to walk. Every morning he would walk in his faded brown coat. Enter in, exit, and walk some more. Not the kind to balk for quarters, yet since an easy buck means food, Oscar found himself constantly running errands. So much that he began to relish the lifestyle of a drifter. No friends, no family, no future, yet inside he was satisfied with hoping. Maybe he would see a shining star right over the hill he was walking up. As the weeks would drag by, it seemed more like crawling on a treadmill that was going a mile per hour. Different jobs and paths, yet the same old thing occurred in mass mocking.
In his heart he was slightly troubled and confused, but not to the point of breaking his composure.
Friday was rainy. Wilder sat on his shabby coach and smoked a busted cigar. Brown puff rings floated up the cracked ceiling. Water dripped in 4-second intervals and a static radio declared the Panthers to a loss. In a city so big, yet so alone. His heart was too cold to cry. He quietly lifted his hands and pretended to be a bird. Think of the feathers that are so small and light. The wind blowing through the white blur of wings. “If I was a bird, I would fly to the sun.” The sun would be bright and big and yellow. It would smell like a hot day, like a banana smoothie. The beach. With sand, and blue water. The beach would be salty. The sound of the waves would be salty. And still standing would be the sun, like a blanket. April Fool’s day. It was still raining.
He got up and looked out the blinds. Mr. Donovan was taking his trash out. Wilder banged the glass. “Hey! You get off my lawn! You hear me?”
The old man looked up and smiled. He picked up the bags and exited, closing the gate behind him. “Old dope like him. They need to stick in a place or something,” muttered Wilder.
He was surprised at how cold it was outside. A bucket with rain water by the deck had frozen over. The smell of chinese drifted over, spicy chicken and all that jazz.
“I’m gonna get an #18,” and again, he was walking for the sake to walk on his stomach.
Mr. Won was not exactly brilliant. Latin Americans do not have such a bold taste for Asian food that cost twice as much as the desired burger n fries. And still, there it stood, a torn corner place with blinking lights and coupon specials every week.