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Everything Gray – Chapter 38 (which indeed appears before one)

2010/05/11

 

 

 

 

Thirty-Eight:  The Dispersal

 ‘They found his clothing  scattered somewhere down the track and he won’t be down on Wall Street in the morning.’ – Don Henley

 June the Third, Two-Thousand Ought-Nine –

 He followed up with the business cards, most readily at the man’s breast, soon followed by everything in the satchel. The receipts.  The forms.  The reports.  Then came the junk mail: credit card offers he was naught to qualify for; lawn-care offerings; that envelope packed with coupons for vendors the business drone was neither familiar with nor entranced by; catalogs by the fistful.  Not nearly warm enough.  Might as well include the bills, and what appeared to several tickets, several summons, or a healthy mixture of the two.  This was hardly even creating a spark, really.

 And now to the nightfly – his bullshit was certainly less in volume, much like the man himself.  Scattered bar napkins littered with undescipherable scrawlings; plans and schemes perhaps genius under neon and repetitivre flashings, but pointless and sad in the morning beams.  A variety of cocktail-ware and pricey colognes  – cheap elegance always had a willing marketplace, obviously.  The liquors and illicits certainly added some excitement to the proceedings, albeit momentarily.  And finally this guy’s phone-thing: Good lord, who needed something like this?  So many goddamn buttons and ‘functions’ it’s very design seemed determined to prevent all actual communication. Has there ever been a photo, note, film or anything of historical important captured or transferred by one of these things?  Just jam-packed with half-assery and jerkoffedness.  He unintentionally let out a chuckle when he considered the owner – maybe this one time in business history, the product actually did fit the consumer.   The label called it a ‘HurricaneXenon7’, three beaming principals of hyperbole jammed together into one nonsensical bastard.  Looking at it in this light, and considering it’s eminent destiny so closely linked with it’s master’s, maybe a more appropriate branding would have been ‘GaudyAssbag3.7’.

 The clothes.  Most certainly all of their clothes.  The ties, the oxfords (cotton, broadcloth, even a silk here and there), the sweaters – dear jehovahphat the sweaters, were they ever a good idea? – the sport-coats and three piece apewear, and the sweatshirts, and the chinos, and the shoes.  You wouldn’t think treated leather could catch quite that spectacularly, but learning is most always from doing.  Not all the tees.  He might need some of those.  And not the boots.  Oh fuck it all – no need for pointless souvenirs at this juncture, in it all goes.  Hmm…About enough for some weinies, he supposed – this might take all night at this snail rate, and there were certainly more pressing matters to scurry off to.

 Aha!  The furniture…..the smell of burning treated cedar mixed with stylish fakery was almost seductive, really.  It’s not as if anyone would really being using any of this from here on out – remnants of ghosts were always on the creep side, and rarely brought back value equaling the hassle at resale, rummage or Ebay.  And from this point, it was all fairly rote – everything must go, and so it did, onto this magnificent pyre.

 He reached into the box and removed the final memories of these two fools:  the photographs, the letters, the journals and the diaries.  Anti-climactic from the visual perspective, perhaps, but most certainly appropriate, and thrillingly cathartic in the purest sense of that sentiment, to be certain.

 Finally they were both most completely gone.  The world would never again be drained by the mediocre straining of the middle-road definitive known as Anson G. Sandstrom; and the party girls of downtown Granton could stumble home with an assurance they wouldn’t be driving home regretful having snuck away at four a.m. from the burden of having mistakenly believed the ramblings of some douche called ‘Mercury’ (real swanky – how could that have worked for anyone?  Booze made people rock dumb, no doubt).  Maybe he was being too hard on this particular guy – he really was a non-factor in the whole thing, but his very presence in the scheme meant he was priced-to-move. But was he really such a bother in the grand scheme?  Actually, probably was.  Screw him.

 He picked up the only remaining items in the empty space:  a book packed with all the notes and theories he could muster on It,  a small bag of colored stones, and a picture of Her.  He jammed them into his pocket.

And then there was only Gray.

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