Nothing to Be Done

blinding flashbulbs, waves of applause, hair extensions, abortions, drugs, demands, abuse, white teeth smiling on money

she used to get to all of that

had them waiting like nervous animals at her feet

but that was twenty or so years ago

she’s cut down now, treading silent circles at the base of a hill

here’s how far she’s come

she put a plastic sack of dog shit on the edge of a rich German’s house, not to be mean, she just didn’t want to haul it around on her walk with big, slick Buck

coming back down the road she decided to leave the sack where it was since the German ate children for breakfast, and nobody really liked carrying dog shit around, but inexorably she came to that moment when she would be the kind of person to leave a sack of dog shit unattended like a violation of national security

the realization of dog shit apparently overwhelmed her

she hesitated and picked it up as if she was behind a curtain

the large droppings were still warm in the sack

the whole retrieval process took maybe twenty seconds

while she was bending over, a garbage truck swung around the corner, happy, dirty, miserable, rolling disease for the common good

she pulled Buck away at the last second

she looked up at a guy in a white mask hanging off the back

he waved to her, and then was gone, off to meet the end of the world twenty minutes outside of town

she and the dog sat panting, sharing big tongues in the morning light

five unexpected minutes lost

returning home she just missed a call from an old boyfriend who was still in the business

he wanted to catch up with her over a drink

hello, hello

her land line’s answering machine was busted

he never tried again, but she heard about the call from a mutual friend and when she dialed his number a few days later, she found out he’d overdosed on heroin and aftershave lotion

now she’s left with the memory of the rich German, the sack of dog shit, the garbage truck, and the missed opportunity to hook up with her old lover, the West Hollywood drug addict who, in his sober moments, was sort of okay

she cried when she told me her story, about the American Dream dying every fucking second of the day, and how she just couldn’t take it any longer

the whole thing sounded right to me

nothing to be done













One thought on “Nothing to Be Done

  1. I’m pleading with you not to touch this piece. I can’t think of a better analogy to the “treading silent circles” phase of life than holding a still warm bag of dog shit. Perfect.


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