Is there a trick, some magical flick, to that condo way up high? A wave of the hand that clears streets to sand for more than a moment by? Maybe a way (I'm afraid to say) to skip this world and my shame? To live where I'm rich, escape this poor niche, trade up to long-sought-for fame? Yes. A warning: People starved for that condo. And your rich-world, buddy? It’s all paid for with blood. (Fuck. Rhyming seems so stupid now.)
“Did you ever notice,” Tate asks as he pulls down his shorts, “that when they ask, ‘What’s your dream?’ like they do in that stupid movie —” he turns around to face the tall white letters — “about the prostitute with a heart of gold — what was it? Oh, yeah, Pretty Woman — that they never — camera ready?” I say yes, the camera is ready. Tate opens wide his arms to The Sign, hefted cheeks glistening, reflecting the sun, flexing newfound freedom, a bounce… “ — really let you choose off-menu?” The phone makes the sound cameras make, a sharp click, as if something real just happened. “Know what I mean?” he asks as he pulls up his lucky shorts.
More? Certainly. Click here.