When he was five years old, his mother took him to the fair. His wide blue eyes saw everything before him and soaked in all it was. He wanted to see the funny people that he could laugh at.
At five years old, Claude never laughed at a raggedly desperate man who held a knife to his throat for chuckling at his deformities. His mother was not to be seen weeping and clawing at the ground for sanctuary.
When he was eighteen years old and ready to enter the university, Claude loved a woman. She was bright and witty, and prepared to love him until the day's end. She ended at twenty and was buried in a cold graveyard that seemed to him too eager to take him as well.
At eighteen years old, Claude never picked the wrong fight in a bar and bled to death, leaned against a yellow taxicab that gaily described the life of New York.
When he was twenty-five years old, he flew to Chicago and tried its pizza (the grease stuck to his scraggly beard and he vowed to shave it off). He visited the stores of Lake Erie and stole into stores, stealing things and wondering at the imbecility of the guards.
At twenty-five years old, Claude never choked on a stolen piece of rubbish taffy, and died wondering why the people around him never gave a glance.
When he was thirty years old, a man with arsenic on his tongue visited him in a hotel in Texas. He offered him a job, told him he knew about his skill. His words weaved a tapestry in the air, pictures of control and peace.
At thirty-seven years old, Claude never died on a bridge after telling his partner the name of his refugee and watched a man with a poisoned tongue and infrared goggles shoot his partner and turn the gun on him.
When he was forty-two years old, a boy with a ridiculous haircut and bright eyes saw him on the street and found him. He latched onto him and begged him for help. Claude admitted him into his confidence and taught him discipline.
At forty-two years old, Claude never died on the abandoned streets of New York from poison in the air and screaming in the winds.
