sticky fingers? why not ‘exile on main street’ or maybe ‘let it bleed’. because he was sure as hell in need of someone to lean on.
‘so did you guys provide the morphine and underage girl for gram out in joshua tree in 73 or what?’
‘no. that’s absurd and you know it.’
‘apparently i don’t know much of anything. does anyone around here know how to make a decent cafe sui da out of this louisiana java? i’d be most grateful, darlin’. and while i’m on my requesting trip, i have to request that nose picker disappears. post haste. he has the smell of general officer’s kid and brat all over him. and some last ditch attempt at redemption for some dumb ass fuck up he’s involved with.’
‘i’ll ask about both of your requests.’
‘good because i’m not happy, even with my wounds or whatever they were all nice and healed up. my mind is in a mess and i suppose i have you to blame. so find me that viet coffee and leave me alone for a spell.’
with that that nurse alice turned on her lovely heels and headed back into the house. he sat and silently watched her. killer heels that made her legs, no, no time for that action. think, man, think.
one thought did occur to him. why did he want vietnamese coffee? and not a bottle of patron? or maybe some absolut or a bottle of wine or three?
another thought was, the house where he was being housed or abused or what the hell ever reminded him of something. he stood up, stretched and wandered over to a gate. opening the gate he walked along the side of the house and into the front yard. no alarms sounded. but he knew he was being watched. probably by nose picker.
the front yard was long and narrow with a large grassy area and plenty of trees. it was nice to be outside and not in some drug induced stupor or hallucination or whatever. to damn many, whatevers. that was for sure.
he turned around to look at the house and a wave of something hit him. the house. he’d seen it before. not only seen it he’d walked around it before. if memory served there was a nice size pool and bbq area on the south side of the house. also more lawn and trees. the pool and bbq area were surrounded by a short chest high block wall. he wandered over to the south side and sure enough there it was amid the grass and trees. the pool and bbq. what the fuck?
he sucked in some of the lightly smoggy LA air and slowly let it out with a sigh. god damn. he was right. he had been there before. it also hit him that the house and yard were almost an exact duplicate of some french painter’s painting. a painting he had admired since childhood. cezanne? yeah, that was it. some frenchy’s house and a title he couldn’t remember.
to keep from falling he leaned against a tree. it was like a quadruple deja vu or something. was that even possible? yeah, the painting and the house. one in the same or an almost too eerie sorta duplicate. an old french painting come to life. one the original and this one. both on two different continents. and out of two different centuries. one in his mind, one on a museum wall some place, one in france, if it still existed, and one right there in front of him. what the hell was going on?
pushing off the tree he made his way back into the courtyard and found a vietnamese french style coffee waiting for him. a tall crystal glass filled with ice and a silver spoon. along with those killer legs and follow me home heels.
‘well, i don’t think this is a VA hospital. at least it isn’t a US of A VA hospital. the VA i know doesn’t spring for crystal glassware and silver ice tea spoons.’
the nurse angel didn’t answer. she was listening. he heard it too. someone, somewhere was listening to an old gene autry tune, ‘san antonio rose’.