|Driving through Mar Vista one night after class, Les sat quietly starring out the window. Sometimes he told me stories about his old car (when he drove in the 70′s) and how a wedged pack of cigarettes kept the battery in place. Sometimes, just about the book he was reading that day. But this night it was particularly quiet. We rolled through a bourgie Mar Vista neighborhood. It was dark and some of the houses had lights on where we saw people drink coffee or watch TV. They had perfectly manicured lawns. Basketball hoops in large driveways, cactus gardens…Les all of a sudden erupted in a smile and went, “It’s like, people live like that? With garages?” And we laughed and laughed.I knew that my every interaction with Les wasn’t normal because Les was special, a prophet always on the outside of what everyone else was thinking or consumed with. It even worried the people close to me how badly I wanted to be like Les with his fuck-the-dentist swagger, but I knew I’d never be as pure, as close to the great consciousness of life where the only truth was transcendence through pen and pad.
Whenever I stopped outside his brick building, he’d sling his backpack and somehow vanish like a ghost into the night, I swear, it was weird. I never saw him open a door to his building. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where the entrance to that building is. It was just always dark and Les would basically float through the walls. He was pure soul.
Pure SoulPosted: September 25, 2013 by Allison Strauss aka Snail in pleskoisms