A/N: thanx again for reviewing! This is a note that has nothing to do with
the story: ehem. I have just finished reading the best book I have read in
a long time its called THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER by Stephen Chbosky
and I HIGHLY recommend it! read it read it read it there's a lot of
difficult subject matter but it's a fantastic book! And its set in me home
town and it reminded me lots of my own friends. SO TRY IT!!
Chapter Seven
JORDAN
I don't believe in a lot of things. I don't believe in fairies (score! Somewhere out there one of the little gnats has just dropped down dead and ain't nobody clapping! That's Jordan 10 Fairies 0!) Okay seriously. I don't believe in God, though that's nothing new, I don't believe in the healing power of prayer, organic food and positive thought, I don't believe in fate, I don't believe in luck or fortune, I don't believe in mothers, it's not that I don't believe they exist, I just don't believe in their capacity to stick around. I don't believe in other people. Sara and Sids and David and Remy say it all the time and it's true. I don't believe that when I fall someone will be there to catch me, I don't believe that you sincerely care about my problems, I don't believe that in the long run, everyone is at least a little bit decent. And here's the whopper, this one always makes people gasp and say, "Surely *not * Jordan! That's just *horrible *!"
I don't believe in love. Alright, go on gasp, cry, shake me, try to convince me otherwise. Go on, do, it'll be fun watching you spaz around till you figure out that nothing is going to change my outlook. Love is a farce. It isn't real.
What I *do * believe in is money. Money is always there and when you have it you're more of a person because that's what everyone thinks. I also believe in death, because everyone dies eventually, and I also believe in the speed of light, because the speed of light and the fact that you are going to die one day are the only things that never change.
I'm sitting on the front stoop of a squat (not my squat, I'm about four blocks from home), smoking a joint and watching the sun rise and waiting for the caffeine pills to wear off so I can stop feeling so jittery.
"Heidi-ho, Jordan ol' buddy ol' pal! Long time no see mi hermano, sup?"
"Good morning, Sids." I say. His hair is electric blue this morning. I don't remember when he changed it, maybe a week ago? I don't even remember what color his hair actually *is *.
"And a fine morning it is indeed, son. I can feel in my bones that something is up. How's Remy?"
"You'll see her when we get home. Ask her then. Anyway how should *I * know how Remy is?" I snap. I am *really * not in the mood for this today.
"Fine. *Chill *. Relax. Go with the floooooooooooow."
I'd ask what he's on but Sids is always like this.
We sit there talking about cabbages and kings and smoking until David shows up, looking exhausted and bent like an old man, even though he's only 22. It's so hard for him, working the nine to five. I know he hates it, but he needs the money. He wants to buy a restaurant and be a chef and to do that you need money, so David works the nine to five with me and Sids, turning tricks and popping pills so he can't remember it too good. Welcome to New York, baby!
"Good morning David my dearest, truest, buddy. My brother, my role model, my REASON FOR LIVING! Have I told you I love you this morning? Have I told you how beautiful you are?" slurs Sids. Sids always slurs, even when he's not high or drunk.
"No, you haven't. Morning Jordan." Says David, sitting down next to me and snatching my joint.
"You're welcome!" I snort.
"No you're a *flower *, David!" coos Sids, flopping down and lying across our laps, "A peach, a rose, an apple, a pear, a shiny new dime, a daisy chaaaaaaiiiiin! You are the wiiiiind beneath my wiiiiiiiiiiiing-zah!"
So we sit there building pies in the sky. Building coffee shops out of clouds, cafés out of the wind, bars made of fog, clubs made of the sunrise. We talk about Remy and how David's so lucky she's his girl. We talk about Sara, and wonder what Mother Theresa of East Village is doing this morning. What good deed has my sister decided she'll do this day? And we talk about Che Guavara because Sids has him tattooed on the left side of his chest and we've run out of other things to talk about.
And then we see Sara dashing up the street toward us, wrapped in her black wool coat with the holes in the sleeves, still in her skimpy working clothes. She's dragging a blond guy with glasses behind her and they both look pretty upset. Only it's a different kind of bupset, the man looks sad and worn down and used to being sad and worn down, but Sara, who probably has more cause to look like that than most people looks like the hurt is fresh and surprising. Like she's never been sad before in her life and this is some new and horrible emotion that she's not used to having.
"Jordan!" she says, wiping her eyes with her coat sleeve, "She's sick. Angel's sick and she's in the hospital and and and-this is Mark." She finishes lamely, pointing to the guy behind her.
"Hello? What? How? Angel? No? Angel, Angel can't get sick! She can't be sick, she's never sick. She's an Angel!" protests Sids, "Sara it's a mistake!"
Sara shakes her head, "It's really not."
"But." says Sids, "but. She was fine. I saw her a few weeks ago. I mean I didn't talk to her I just saw her at St. Mark's Place. I saw her she was.she was fine."
"That wasn't her, Sids." Says David. "It wasn't her that was someone else. You know it was someone else."
"No." says Sids. "Angels don't get sick."
But I know they do. Because you can't count on anything accept the speed of light and that we are all going to die one day. So Angels can get sick. And it looks like this one's card is up.
*** A/N: I know it's moving kinda slow, I apologize for that!
Chapter Seven
JORDAN
I don't believe in a lot of things. I don't believe in fairies (score! Somewhere out there one of the little gnats has just dropped down dead and ain't nobody clapping! That's Jordan 10 Fairies 0!) Okay seriously. I don't believe in God, though that's nothing new, I don't believe in the healing power of prayer, organic food and positive thought, I don't believe in fate, I don't believe in luck or fortune, I don't believe in mothers, it's not that I don't believe they exist, I just don't believe in their capacity to stick around. I don't believe in other people. Sara and Sids and David and Remy say it all the time and it's true. I don't believe that when I fall someone will be there to catch me, I don't believe that you sincerely care about my problems, I don't believe that in the long run, everyone is at least a little bit decent. And here's the whopper, this one always makes people gasp and say, "Surely *not * Jordan! That's just *horrible *!"
I don't believe in love. Alright, go on gasp, cry, shake me, try to convince me otherwise. Go on, do, it'll be fun watching you spaz around till you figure out that nothing is going to change my outlook. Love is a farce. It isn't real.
What I *do * believe in is money. Money is always there and when you have it you're more of a person because that's what everyone thinks. I also believe in death, because everyone dies eventually, and I also believe in the speed of light, because the speed of light and the fact that you are going to die one day are the only things that never change.
I'm sitting on the front stoop of a squat (not my squat, I'm about four blocks from home), smoking a joint and watching the sun rise and waiting for the caffeine pills to wear off so I can stop feeling so jittery.
"Heidi-ho, Jordan ol' buddy ol' pal! Long time no see mi hermano, sup?"
"Good morning, Sids." I say. His hair is electric blue this morning. I don't remember when he changed it, maybe a week ago? I don't even remember what color his hair actually *is *.
"And a fine morning it is indeed, son. I can feel in my bones that something is up. How's Remy?"
"You'll see her when we get home. Ask her then. Anyway how should *I * know how Remy is?" I snap. I am *really * not in the mood for this today.
"Fine. *Chill *. Relax. Go with the floooooooooooow."
I'd ask what he's on but Sids is always like this.
We sit there talking about cabbages and kings and smoking until David shows up, looking exhausted and bent like an old man, even though he's only 22. It's so hard for him, working the nine to five. I know he hates it, but he needs the money. He wants to buy a restaurant and be a chef and to do that you need money, so David works the nine to five with me and Sids, turning tricks and popping pills so he can't remember it too good. Welcome to New York, baby!
"Good morning David my dearest, truest, buddy. My brother, my role model, my REASON FOR LIVING! Have I told you I love you this morning? Have I told you how beautiful you are?" slurs Sids. Sids always slurs, even when he's not high or drunk.
"No, you haven't. Morning Jordan." Says David, sitting down next to me and snatching my joint.
"You're welcome!" I snort.
"No you're a *flower *, David!" coos Sids, flopping down and lying across our laps, "A peach, a rose, an apple, a pear, a shiny new dime, a daisy chaaaaaaiiiiin! You are the wiiiiind beneath my wiiiiiiiiiiiing-zah!"
So we sit there building pies in the sky. Building coffee shops out of clouds, cafés out of the wind, bars made of fog, clubs made of the sunrise. We talk about Remy and how David's so lucky she's his girl. We talk about Sara, and wonder what Mother Theresa of East Village is doing this morning. What good deed has my sister decided she'll do this day? And we talk about Che Guavara because Sids has him tattooed on the left side of his chest and we've run out of other things to talk about.
And then we see Sara dashing up the street toward us, wrapped in her black wool coat with the holes in the sleeves, still in her skimpy working clothes. She's dragging a blond guy with glasses behind her and they both look pretty upset. Only it's a different kind of bupset, the man looks sad and worn down and used to being sad and worn down, but Sara, who probably has more cause to look like that than most people looks like the hurt is fresh and surprising. Like she's never been sad before in her life and this is some new and horrible emotion that she's not used to having.
"Jordan!" she says, wiping her eyes with her coat sleeve, "She's sick. Angel's sick and she's in the hospital and and and-this is Mark." She finishes lamely, pointing to the guy behind her.
"Hello? What? How? Angel? No? Angel, Angel can't get sick! She can't be sick, she's never sick. She's an Angel!" protests Sids, "Sara it's a mistake!"
Sara shakes her head, "It's really not."
"But." says Sids, "but. She was fine. I saw her a few weeks ago. I mean I didn't talk to her I just saw her at St. Mark's Place. I saw her she was.she was fine."
"That wasn't her, Sids." Says David. "It wasn't her that was someone else. You know it was someone else."
"No." says Sids. "Angels don't get sick."
But I know they do. Because you can't count on anything accept the speed of light and that we are all going to die one day. So Angels can get sick. And it looks like this one's card is up.
*** A/N: I know it's moving kinda slow, I apologize for that!