A City Called July

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I sat in my office cleaning out the fuzzy rubble that collects at the bottom of the jam jar I keep pens and pencils in. Also in the litter I found an old watch strap, paper-clips, slightly used Stimudents, clip-on sunglasses and a book of paper matches from Hatch’s Surf Lounge in Niagara Falls, New York, three-quarters used. The ashtrays on my desk were empty except for the one with my current Player’s nodding off in it. I’d cleaned them all the afternoon before to keep me from falling asleep. It was one of those summer mornings when the telephone didn’t ring and I was edgy because it kept looking like it was going to. I’d written a couple of cheques and paid the back rent on the office and my room at the City House. I should have had that warm feeling that comes with my monthly attempt at putting my life in order, but I felt that if I didn’t have the pens, pencils and other junk to occupy my mind completely, I’d break out in a sweat.

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