The Informers (Vintage Contemporaries)

look away from the screen and over at Christie. Randy hands me the joint and I take a toke and close my eyes but I’m so stoned right now that the hit doesn’t do anything, just moves me to the pseudorealization that I am located somewhere beyond communication.

She just stares at me blankly like she didn’t hear a word, then checks her lips in a compact and stares at me some more, asks me what a wok is, what the word “invisible” means.

Looking at Tim, one cannot help feeling great waves of uncertainty, an absence of aim, of purpose, as if he is a person who simply doesn’t matter.

This is the first time I can remember since I was a kid that I am glad and content to be where I am. I don’t know if you have ever felt like this, but I’ve always felt very uncomfortable and impatient with wherever I happen to be after a certain point. I get bored and irritated and everything I think is in the future tense (maybe like the way you g

“Let’s catch a midnight flick in Westwood,” she suggests, eyes brightening at her own suggestion.

“You would be fucking an abyss,” Martin says, yawning, stretching. “A clean, vaguely talented abyss. But an abyss nonetheless.”

About a week ago I was sitting in L.A.’s chicest nightclub with a few friends and the DJ was playing Yaz and Bowie and the videos were on and I was on my third gin and tonic and I realized that no matter where I am it’s always the same.

On the flight back to L.A. I sit next to an old man who keeps drinking Bloody Marys and mumbling to himself. As the plane makes its descent he asks me if this is my first time in L.A. and I say “Yeah” and the man nods and I put the headset back on and listen to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts sing “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” and tense up as the plane br

take a drag off his cigarette and look up at Martin, who is very tan and strong and young, with blue eyes that are so vague and blank they are impossible not to fall into.

On the plane leaving Tokyo I’m sitting alone in back twisting the knobs on an Etch-A-Sketch and Roger is next to me singing “Over the Rainbow” straight into my ear, things changing, falling apart, fading, another year, a few more moves, a hard person who doesn’t give a fuck, a boredom so monumental it humbles, arrangements so fleeting made by peopl