it seemed like the house was always cold. the carpet was old and stained, an ugly beige color. We came over to his house a few times to watch daytime tv. it was a small house with dirty windows.
he lived near the power plant. you could sit on his roof at night smoking cigarettes and watch the lights blink for hours. they were so bright you couldnt see the sky, a starless night. there was a lake next to it, where they dumped the sewage, which would steam in winter. this gave everything a blurry glow.
he was older than us, but it didnt really matter. i guess you could call him a burnout, i mean he didnt much of a future ahead of him. he worked at a mexican food restaurant and didnt talk much, he was a friend of a friend.
it was a themed restaurant, a few blocks away from downtown. it had meals worse than fastfood (like all themed restaurants).
He was like a personal PSA, the real-life example of too much pot smoking. being at his house was like a moment of clarity, a step into that cold house was like a step into reality. an example of how many ways you could fuck up, what happens to the people no one pays attention to. the ones who 'slip through the cracks' like a penny or a cigarette butt.
everyone has this non-discript friend of a friend. the one who buys you PBR and doesnt really care about whats on the news. the ones with the linoleum floor and the chain link fence. i only ever though about him in passing.
then he moved away.
this is what February feels like.
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