The Heavy Night

Brian Heliotrope was woken from a deep sleep by the gentle sound of rain falling on a tin roof. He was momentarily confused since he knew he was sleeping out side. Opening his eyes, he saw the stars in the clear night sky shining down unblinking, uncaring and merciless, like galactic tax auditors. Once again he contemplated the viscitudes of life. He thought about steak too. How far could his fall from grace take him? Would he need to change trains? Where was his hat?

He turned towards the sound that had awakened him. It was just another wino on fire, the cheery blaze making flickering shadows on the brick wall behind him. Look, a rabbit, now a duck. What talent!

Brian despaired. His talents had deserted him along with his second pair of pants. Now he could only shuffle along the hard streets, occassionally breaking into a soft shoe routine, the stares of passers-by squeezing his spleen.

All hope was gone. It took the 3:19 to Central and made him pay for the ticket. It wanted a window seat.

The first grey streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, which was nice, because the day before they had appeared in a paper bag blwing carelessly down the street. Brian climbed clumsily to his feet, or perhaps someone else's feet, and stumbled off to face another day.