Michael Catherwood

Nashville, the Cutting Floor Edits Afternoons the man stared through bullet holes in tavern windows. Didn't take much to get the skill, just a walk down Broadway, a glance into the equation of faces, a chaser to go down with the draft. He rode the slow hangover and shined the vinyl barstools, while outside a thin black man spit-shined a 200-pound woman's Acmes. He stole into those faces as they slid by Tooties, then down Printers Alley. Cross-cut. He became some else: the man who screamed for directions, who scrambled up and down fire escapes. The new man didn't eat much, strolled the sex booth shops, fed five-dollar tokens into the peek-a-booths. Sadness smeared across the glass like grease. Four days on in the Sam Davis Hotel, he listened to the lonesome laughter fall from the ceiling, watched faces in the café tapping for breakfast. He looked down into his eggs, the small flecks of blood sunny-side up.

Copyright © 1999 Michael Catherwood All Rights Reserved