“Euripides”, he screamed as he leapt from the third story balcony, making the pool by damn-fool inches. My guess is he’s all of 19 and quite possibly drunk. I wait for others to follow, but no one else does. I wanted to ask the kid if he was alright, but discretion encouraged silence instead. I did see him splash about, then laugh in a spasm of face-saving recovery and self-acknowledgement. Whatever sting his flesh might feel will be soon remedied by the coursing, glorious venoms of irrepressible youth. It’s a purity of madness I used to know well, but now only witness as a stodgy, cigar store Indian, a man in my early 50’s trying to regain ballast and grappling for definition. “Did you see that, man? Did you FUCKING SEE that?” He yelled from the pool. Without turning around, I continued toward the room carrying an ice bucket in my right hand and offering an anemic, waving acknowledgement in the other. I hear him laugh like a mental patient as the door shuts behind me.
screaming euripides |
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