The cactus died; diseased soil. It got plenty of sunlight. Died in front of a window. Wilted like bad lettuce. I close the drapes.
A mouse runs across the room. Holes in walls. A sink in the corner drips constantly. Rusted pipes. A twin bed with lumps in it.
On a shelf next to Moby Dick is a jar of instant coffee. Sugar and powdered cream are down below next to On The Road. A coffee cup works as a bookend.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Outside looks cold despite the sun. Ice has formed on windows. There is snow on the sidewalk. It is January; the loneliest time of the year. I smoke a cigarette and tap it in a beanbag ashtray on the floor, rub my eyes, and blow my nose into an old tee-shirt bought at Goodwill. A morning cough clears the lungs.
The clock radio is turned on to WKCR. I listen to Phil Schaap talk about Charlie Parker in his monotone voice.
Interesting thing about Parker, Schaap says. One time, Bird played a plastic saxophone he borrowed for a concert at Massey Hall in Toronto from the promoter. If you listen to the majority of his work when he played brass, you can tell the difference. Albeit ever so slightly. And yes, there is wide speculation that Bird pawned his instrument to pay for his drug habit. The plastic sax is in Kansas City at the American Jazz Museum. The time is 8:00 here in New York.
There are statistics showing that September and January have the highest suicide rates. Other studies say May, June, and July. I read this information in an article once on depression and how to combat it.
What do psychiatrists know? I ask myself. Numbers. We’re all numbers. Stats and test subjects. Lab rats, he puts out the cigarette and looks outside again.
The time is 8:20 here in New York.