Conversations and Lonesome References to Movies

by Andy Heck Boyd

So much is hiding what you do. 
Writing. That’s what you mean, right?
Yeah, I did mean, like so much of writing is hiding what you write. 
Not in all cases. 
(scrolls down the list)
My ear hurts. Like it feels like it got a broken leg.
Oh shit. Uh, weird, my ear hurts too. My right ear.
Oh its my left ear that hurts. 
(hears someone talking and hears feet clapping against the pavement.)
(they both look at the window)
An old woman walks by wearing flip flops, she is with a bald man.
Okay, time to get going. 
Oh ya, cool.
Yeah, need to go to bed early, have to be at work for 7 am.
Ah, you’ll beat the traffic. Or I mean, the traffic will be quiet, or no?
Yeah, I don’t know. Usually its not bad at 7 or 8. Where I’m headed.
(I’m anxious, once he leaves I pace the floors. Thinking what to do next. With my time.)
a few minutes later he drives by, and I look at the window, but from the angle I’m at I can only hear his car. The rusty metal under the car rattling noisily. 
Damn, glad he left, I have to piss bad. Then after some time, he feels exhausted suddenly. Like it came on slow, and finally he lays down, closing his eyes instantly. Sleep takes hold of him, covering his body as though with a soft warm blanket. And within a minute he’s asleep.

He wakes up, looks at the microwave clock across the room. Squinting to see the time. He gives up because he can’t see, its too blurry. He slides out of bed, sweaty and clothes feel damp. 
(oh i feel good. I feel awake. I’m hungry.)
Later he’s eating a bag of microwave popcorn. (This reminds me of a scene in a movie.) His fingers are shiny from the oily popped kernels. He feels gross. (I feel gross, I need a shower.) 
He is lonesome already. Its only been, (looks at the time) a few hours since my friend left. He remembers he can’t talk to him, because he’s in bed right now. (I don’t want to wake him up. Maybe I can talk to my other friends, they’re online.)
For a moment he looks at the ceiling after car lights appeared and moved across the walls and faded. At that time he forgets that he is in his own apartment, that he is 29 years old, it is the present moment. (Oh, I feel like I was looking at the ceiling of an apartment I lived in 6 years ago. I do that sometimes. I wake up in the middle of the night, and look at the window, and forget where I am. Or rather, I believe I’m in the past, a past place. All these places look and feel the same. It’s strange.)
Sometimes quite often he thinks of famous dead writers of fiction. His hero’s. Crazed, drug addicted, brilliant writers. Or depressed writers. Or fucked up writers. He often thinks of these dead writers, and in no particular way, how some part of them, what they wrote or were quoted as saying, appear to him, when he is busy with other things. And sometimes he remembers the idea or the vision he conjured in his mind when he came across the words for the first time. And they are still pretty much still intact, original, and unchanged.