“They should write a song about this town,” Wilson said as he wiped and wiped and wiped his shoes on the doormat, “a real heavy tragic number. With a chorus of ululating chicks. And a stupidly epic sorrowful sax solo.”
He walked down the hallway and apparently guiding ME, he stepped into the living room.
“Like the tapis,” he said as he walked by a tie dyed handkerchief my dearly departed sister had tacked up on the wall.
I didn’t want to argue. But I hated it. But also my sister. But also my house. But also family first. But also art sux. But also memories of the beloved dead. But and but and but and but and but. And thus was and is—the universe.
“Buck!” Wilson snapped. I blunk out of my conflubulation.
“Sorry,” I murmured, “something I ate.”
“I told that limo that joint looked like a cheap poisoners supply hut,” he said and shrugged, “I apologize. But cars these days—what’re you gonna do? Anyways no grand tour. I wanna juice my eyegeese on that device of yours.”
I shuddered because I knew there was gonna be a big but at the end of this one.
There always was.
I took him led him down the stairs to the basement where I maintained my workshop. For a time I had tried to refer to it as a laboratory but I never really felt confident enough to rally make it so. Thus, workshop. Did that make me more of a hobbyist than any kind of true creator or inventor or whatyallcaller? Probably, but I couldn’t let that get–
“These stairs creak more than a rheumatoid arthritic trying to wipe his butt with a sandy towel,” he said.
That lost me so I stayed silent and sipped through the dark feeling up with practiced fingers for the string that hung from the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. I pulled it down and the room was set aglow in clean, white light.
I stood there.
And he gasped.