Short story

Irving Monroe is tall and skinny. When he was growing up in Baltimore, he stuck out among the Jews. He told me he feels like an anachronism. When you meet Irving, you can tell he's itching for a cigarette. But since he wont be 18 for another three months, he never has one. Usually he tries to bum them off the homeless and disabled. He would ask more of the majority (to be politically correct) but then he gets dirty looks. Before you get to know Irving well, you want him to be asexual, or asocial, asomething. But he's not, an your always disappointed. He's straight, and what you would label a 'floater'. In highschool, people think they're being really deep by rejecting labels, but Irving knows better and accepts it. Whenever I go to meet Irving, its always at the same place. The cafe. He's always sitting in the back, in one of the faux red leather booths, with a pot of Japanese tea that tastes like seaweed. Every time I sit down, he doesn't even try the small talk and just bitches about how everyone at the cafe are either hippies or trust fund babies. Besides the regular. But, where else are you going to get liquid sushi? Booth culture is an amazing thing. They're very personal with out being to close to someone. A perfect place for conversation. After the complaints, Irving will tell me about some movie I have never heard of, (usually expressionist films), or some poem that only sounds slightly familiar. While he is talking, I nod my head and pretend to understand while watching the brown moth flutter around the ceiling lamp. After tea we go out and walk the ally ways and climb on roofs. Occasionally we go on elevator tides, but only if he wants to tell me about some mystery girl. The problem with our tall skinny boy is that he is attractive. So Occasionally an even stupider girl will come over with her little friend to try to talk to him. But he just stares back and eventually they will leave. Irving likes stuningly beautiful brunettes with mystery and lines of poems hand written on there cigarettes. The 15 year olds who try to bat eyelashes at him are not those girls. Every Saturday we take the bus down to the city and go to the art museum. Art is one thing I can understand. We go on satiates because it is free. Our preference is modern art. Tacky, I know, but we love it. Irving is not an artist, he is a writer. Now, most literary types are highly pretentious and a pain in the ass. They all want to be the star, they're as bad as drama nerds. Irving knows this, so he keeps his mouth shut. When I'm with Irving, I usually tear up whatever piece of paper that might be near by. Napkins, bus transfers, Styrofoam cups, anything. He always asks me if I am anxious about something, but I lie and say no. I know what you must be thinking, but don't get the wrong idea about Irving and I, all I am is someone to hear his unnaturally high voice appreciate things that most people don't know about yet. He is nice though. He gave his old holy gray sweater once. It smelled like hardwood floor and coffee and cigarettes. Exactly like the cafe we go to so often. The smell is all gone, but Occasionally I will put it on and read a book he recommended. If you haven't guessed it yet, I am in love with Irving Monroe. It is a bit of a handicap, but I don't think he's noticed yet.