Bootie Who

*This is something I started working on but never finished*

“Just look at all of them, they’re everywhere. And…and one day we’ll be like that, so ancient, so frail, so transparent…”

“So oblivious to the world surrounding us,” Tommy cuts in.

“Exactly, we’ll know what everything is; technology, sex, we’ll just forget what to do with it.”

“It’s not that we forget what to do with it, I think we want to forget because those tools of the trade just don’t work anymore: erectile dysfunction, senility.”

“Osteoporosis…”

“Huh?”

“You know, loss of bone density…no, doesn’t ring a bell?”

“I know what fucking osteoporosis is. It just has no relevance.”

“It has relevance. It’s something we have, bone density, and with age we lose, just like with sexual functionality.”

And it pretty much stayed like this for the rest of the day. Tommy and I sipping java, eating coffee cakes and discussing our worries about the years to come. That was how my day went. My night is a completely different story. It started on my walk home.

On the many a nights that I make the trek from the quaint coffee house, three blocks to my apartment I usually occupy my time whistling a tune. Be it a one hit wonder from the eighties or current tune being played on the rock radio stations, it is whistled loud and proud from these two lips. On this hazy, damp night, I had chosen Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody to help make the excursion fly by. (For I had just rented the new Mark Paul Gosselaar movie and I couldn’t wait to see if he had chosen a role that would revitalize his career and shut up the naysayers who believe that Zack Morris is all that he’ll ever be. I know your saying to yourself, “He was in NYPD Blue. Didn’t that shed his Zack Morris innocence?” No, it did not.)

Just as I’m rounding the corner and approaching the stairs leading into my apartment building I come to the last bars of Freddie Mercury’s masterpiece.

“A great choice,” I whisper to myself as I climb the stairs and journey into number 133.

Once inside I hang my keys on the key hanger I made in shop as a high schooler, immediately walk to the phone, and check for messages. There is one; I push the button and out of the tiny speaker, I hear my sister’s annoyingly fake yankee accent.

Hey Les, my cah broke down this mahnin’ and I have this really hawt date tonight. So, I have two favahs ta ask, one, can I bahrow ya cah tonight, and second can you watch little Hilary while I’m gone? I’ll owe ya big. Call me back, love ya.”

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