Brautigan meets Parisian

I.
He used to tell me about the way that rotting worms smell when they reach the top of the soil, crawling out across the pavement into puddles to squirm and wiggle with discontent at how they'd never make it across the road and how they would soon die there without friends or loved ones around to hold a funeral. It rained on Tuesday, and as I walked to the taxi, I put my feet in the empty spaces between the worms, trying hard not to step on them and put them out of misery. The school kids, in their rain-boots and rain-hats and rain-coats stomp into the puddles and trickling streams of water across the sidewalk. They step on the worms. I apologize for them. I'm sorry worms. You look so funny when you squiggle and squirm into a tiny wormy ball of pink flesh spewing guts full of dirt and rain water. The worms salute me as I walk by. They like that I don't step on them.

II.
He lived in the basement of one of those houses they have in bad gang movies, one where the trim on the garage matches the trim of the house, but only around the doorway, because the windows don't have painted trim at all. The house was sort a a forest green, like the pine trees that we used to dream about in Montana while fishing in the little stream behind our wigwam. It was a nice wigwam, and we watched sunsets from its doorway, stuck halfway between the Indians and Oregon or the new neon signs in Vegas, where we swore we'd go someday, even if we had to hitch hike. The sky was as pink as the trim on that house. Sometimes we'd go into the basement where he lived and watch films. Not good films. The kind of films that you get bored with half-way through and make you wish you had something better to do or to talk about. I once asked him why we watched them. He said because I couldn't keep him entertained. I knew this was a lie, but I let him carry on anyway. He enjoyed being right. I let him think so.

III.
He used to write songs that were supposed to be about me, or about his life, or about whatever, and sometimes he would play them for me on his fathers guitar. It was a nice guitar, and his father was dead, so he couldn't have minded that my friend used to play it. He still does sometimes, but its less and less now. He's getting addicted to the keyboard-synthesizer things. He says they're much easier to use. Sometimes I wonder if he ever wrote down those songs for his guitar. She was very pretty, and it would be a shame if he hadn't. Somehow, I think he never did. He didn't seem like the type to start something and finish it the way it should be. He was always indecisive like that. It made me wonder if he ever knew what he was going to do five minutes from now, or five years, or five decades, and if he really knew his father was dead, and maybe he was his father, but was just too ashamed to admit he was living vicariously through his son. it made me sad for him, and I would have liked to tell him this, but he was very indecisive, and he wouldn't have known what to say to me.

IV.
We used to talk about The Baby as if it were some inevitable sickness that would fall on us sooner or later. At one point, it almost sounded like he wanted one. He talked about names for it and I laughed, thinking it was all a joke. He was really very serious, and thought he'd tell me so. I didn't like it. it was too awkward. what would I want with a Baby? They all seemed like dolls to me anyway. Crying, pooping, puking dolls to me. It just was not a good idea. Then one day I thought I might be pregnant. Then he changed his mind about Babies. I'm glad he did. No one loves a girl who wants to be little and pretty and adorable and has a Baby.

V.
We used to talk about things that we could laugh about, like the weather or our neighbors or old people and silverware. It was always interesting, or racial, or unimportant, but we got along fine enough. I always liked the way that I could listen to him tell stories about baked beans and Mexicans and fancy cars and Gypsies and how I was always the beautiful princess. I never asked him to listen to me, and when a friend of mine died, I listened to his stories. When I was sad, I listened to his stories. When I was bursting like a firework or a teenage boy's hormones with some great news of how well something or other had gone or was covered in pencil and paint and ink and developer, I would listen to him. I always listened to him talk. My voice just seemed so fragile inside of his hands. Maybe someday he would break it and I would lose it forever. At least, thats what I thought. but somehow I was wrong and I listened to him and the spoons talk over soup and finally realized we didnt have anything to talk about and I was wrong and he was right and this was going to be over soon. He would leave for California and I would be That Girl that just wasn't good enough to leave an address.