Lond Ho Respite

J.C. Hunter reached down and pulled up on his skull-covered socks and continued to stare at the disorganized pile of jewel cases, and loose Compact Discs that sat, stacked haphazardly on the gritty, hardwood floor in front of the five-disc player. It drove him crazy that his friends seemed to have no sense of order when it came to things like this.

Hunter thought about the flat he was sharing with Bill back at The London House Apartments. There one would never find a book, a CD, or Betamax video that wasn’t in alphabetical order on the shelves, well Hunter’s shelves anyway. Bill tended to keep his stuff in no particular order, but at least the CDs were in their cases where they belonged.

The more Hunter thought about the “Lond Ho” flat the happier he was. As far as he was concerned he had three things to be happy about. Number one, Living downtown, “were the fucking action is” as he was fond of saying. Two was working for the Cosmodemonic Security Company, a job that although it did suck, it only did so when he was there. And third was the fact that he made just enough money to eat, and get pished with his buddies three times a week, which in his opinion was “just about right.”

What was there to be sad about? The truth was Hunter couldn’t think of anything, and in a way he kind of missed the comfort in being sad, because as he reasoned it, when you are at rock bottom, wallowing in your own pit of depression and self loathing the only way to go was up.

Hunter shut his eyes for a moment and listened to the Pixies kissing mermaids and riding the el Niño. Just as he was about to stand and pour himself another drink, his buddy Paco reached over and yanked a CD from the middle of the pile, sending the rest tumbling to the hardwood floor, skittering and rolling.

“Man, be careful. You don’t want to scratch your discs.” Hunter said as he headed towards the fridge.

Paco just shrugged and slurred drunkenly, “Ah whaddareyagonnado?”