sub-better versions (fake swings)

benny throws another armful of my clothes into the drum and says, ok pass the gasoline. i hand him the red plastic gascan and he soaks the barrel's contents -- most of my wardrobe, some letters, books; the sundry evidence of a near past -- and then we both step back aways.

you want to say anything? he says, a redbird between his fingers.

nope. burn it already, i say.

he strikes the match off his thumbnail and tosses it into the drum; the works erupt. through the warbled air and hissing embers, his rictus grin makes me think i've been played. i like it about benny that you never really know whose side he's on.

there's a crowd down the street milling like geese. benny says he can get us past the line. I'd rather watch the stuff burn but that's not part of the deal. you've got to show her, he says and fake golf swings again. head down, like a shortstop, he mantras. i hate golf. goddamn bourgeois. but i like it when benny does his fake swings.

we go to see the band. they're written up in the ny times magazine so it's all pretension to me and i can't stand them. benny says that nothing a person likes or doesn't like is ever really totally about the thing. i think it's not so complicated. when you hate something, you hate it. it should be like that.

way past last call we leave for nowhere. the fire's burned out and it's colder outside than i thought, even though it's february. it's because we haven't eaten since friday. and also because i just burned all my clothes.