Morrissey Bled Through An Open Door
By the time I made it to the bar, my shoes were gone. The bouncer gave me a small ration of shit, but eventually let me in. "Next time wear fucking shoes," he nodded, then stepped aside. I thanked him with a nod of my own and pushed past. Three steps in, broken glass started raping the soles of my feet. I dropped to my ass and grabbed my ankles, lifting them. The trickle ran south, but when I pulled a particularly nasty shard from my heel, a stream spurted east, maybe west. Two girls, one in yellow mesh and the other in acid wash, clutched and screamed, then laughed. The bouncer hooked my armpits and lifted me up. "Get the fuck out," he said, but when he let go, I fell again. "What's the matter with you? Are you deaf?" I tried to explain that I'd stepped on broken glass, and that I was in no condition to walk, let alone stand. I tried to explain this as the girls laughed and pointed, yellow mesh blowing me kisses. The bouncer dragged me by the arms through the doorway and onto the sidewalk. Only then did he realize the red snail trail I'd left behind. Looking up, I could see his apology, but it came out rough. "Next time wear fucking shoes." I asked if he'd mind me sitting for a few minutes to pull the glass from my feet before walking. He didn't say anything, but jerked me a few yards from the door into the shadows. For a short time I felt like we were working together, him checking I.D.s while I fingered my soles. As he smoked a cigarette, I asked, "Do you like your job?" He frowned, then disappeared into the bar. He came back out with a coffee can. "For the glass," he said, setting it beside me. Then he sighed, and sat on his heels. I thanked him. The cigarette snapped red flicker onto the street, and I could feel him watching me as I wincingly worked. He began to ask a question, but stopped. I didn't have the answer anyway.
Mel Bosworth lives and breathes in Western Massachusetts. Read more at http://eddiesocko.blogspot.com/