Journal entry 15 March 2007

I was in the mall, about to walk up the grand stairs to my apartment, when who should appear but Rory Place and this new girlfriend of his (the one with the small yellow neon tattoo on her shoulder).

We played army a lot when we were kids and he's still in his brown, World War Two style, five-star general helmet.

What a glad-handing bore he is. What a neighbor. Always so earnestly happy to see me again, and shake my hand. And then the conversation goes nowhere. I got nothing to say. I'm tired, coming home from work at the depot, where I spend my hours sending and receiving telegrams, and swinging the lantern for the locomotives.

Anyway I felt mean and wanted to make an impression on this little blond bombshell of his. So I tell the General, "I haven't seen you since the Alamo! And what the hell? I thought you were dead, Place."

Then I just walked away. Sort of like I walked away from the Alamo myself. I mean I'm not really one to talk, except my uniform is as a Western Union man. He's dressed like George Patton. And he's got the girl.

I'm fine with people as long as they're not top-heavy forward, living in past glories I don't share. Hell, who shakes hands anymore? And that grin.

Eh, forget it. Time to get to sleep.