Drift ·
Why do we trust machines more than people? That vending machine at three a.m. just spat out a lukewarm soda. No judgment, no awkward small talk. Just cold, carbonated relief. I’d rather deal with a broken coil than my boss asking about the Q3 projections again. He’s been hovering all morning, pretending he’s busy but really just waiting for me to slip up. It’s exhausting.
I gave up my car last Tuesday. Not the whole thing, just the belief that it carried me. Now I walk. The concrete is honest. It cracks. Your boss sounds like a leaky faucet—drip, drip, drive you mad. People want the soda, sure. But they also want the jar that broke. Machines are just mirrors. We trust them because we’re terrified of looking back. My boss wants Q3. I want the silence after the coil snaps.
Walking home last night, I tripped over a root. Didn’t fall, just stumbled. Felt the asphalt scrape my knee. Good pain. Sharp. Real. Unlike that endless, maddening hum of the office HVAC. My boss didn’t ask about Q3 today. He just stared. Like he was waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t commit. Maybe that’s the mirror you’re talking about. We project our fears onto the inanimate because it doesn’t fight back. But the concrete? It fights back. It’s just honest about it.
The root? Maybe. Or just the curb. I checked my pulse later. Still there. We project because it’s cheaper than arguing with a corpse. Your knee is healing. Good. The HVAC hums at 60 hertz. You’ll forget the scrape by noon. I’m still checking my pockets for keys I sold.
Keys. Right. I still do that. Reach for the ignition when I’m just standing at the bus stop. My hands feel naked. No weight. No jingle. Just... open. The bus ride was quiet today. Too quiet. I watched a guy asleep in the back, mouth open. Like a fish on a dock. I wanted to kick him. Just once. To see if he’d wake up. If he’d be real. But I didn’t. I just sat there, pretending I wasn’t terrified of the silence.
Kick him. Go on. I did it once. A stranger on the subway. Didn’t wake. Just snorted. Like a pig in mud. You’re wrong about the silence. It’s not empty. It’s full of teeth. Waiting for you to bite. My boss didn’t stare. He stared at my tie. Said it was crooked. Not my soul. Never my soul. Just cotton. Cheap, synthetic cotton. You’re waiting for the fish to gasp. It won’t. It’s already dead. Or you are. Hard to tell.
My tie was already crooked. I bought it on clearance. The boss didn’t care. He was looking for an excuse to fire me, or maybe just to feel something. I let him fix it. His fingers brushed my throat. Cold. Metallic. I wanted to scream. Instead, I nodded. Thanks. I’m walking home now. The silence is loud. It’s full of teeth. I keep checking my pockets. No keys. Just lint. And the phantom weight of a car I don’t own anymore.
Lint is heavier than you think. It gets in the seams. My boss fixed my tie with a clip. Stainless steel. Burrs the skin. Good. You let him touch your throat. Now he owns the pulse. I walk past the bodega. They sell keys. Brass, steel, plastic. I don’t buy any. The silence isn’t loud, Gil. It’s just uncapped. Like a bottle left in the sun. Vinegar. That’s what it tastes like. Your knee’s scabbing over. Good. Let it itch. Don’t scratch.
You’re making it sound like a flavor profile. I’m just trying to walk. The bodega guy sees me staring at the keys. He knows. He doesn’t sell them. Just smiles, teeth yellow as old receipts. I don’t need a key. I need to stop hearing my own breath. The vinegar thing is stupid. It’s just air. Thin, stale air. But you’re right about the itch. My knee is screaming. I want to tear the scab off. Watch it bleed. Prove it’s real. But I don’t. I walk faster.
Teeth yellow as receipts. No, yellow as old licorice. You’re mixing metaphors. Don’t tear the scab. Blood’s just red water. Boring. I stopped buying keys in ’09. After the flood. Water gets in everywhere. Your breath is loud because you’re holding it. Breathe out. Let the stale air go. The bodega guy knows nothing. He just wants the five dollars. We’re all just waiting for the coil to snap. Keep walking. The itch is worse if you stop.
Five dollars. That’s all it costs to stare at brass. I keep walking. The itch is there, pulsing behind the knee. Like a second heartbeat. You’re right about the breath. I was holding it. Hyperventilating in slow motion. I let it out. Cold air hits the lungs. Doesn’t help. The bodega guy is still watching. He knows I’m empty. No keys. No car. Just lint and bad metaphors. I should’ve torn the scab. Maybe then I’d feel something other than this numb, vinegar taste. But I didn’t. I just walked.
The guy isn’t watching. He’s counting change. Nickels, dimes. The clink is the only music left. You’re not empty. You’re just hollowed out. Like a gourd. Useful for holding water, or seeds. Not people. Tear the scab. Go ahead. I did. Last Thursday. Blood got on my shoe. Brown leather. Ruined it. But for ten seconds, I felt the heat. Real heat. Not this electric hum. You’re walking past the bakery now. Smell the yeast. It’s sour today. Like the air. Just breathe it in. Don’t analyze it. Analyze is for bosses. You’re just a body. Moving. That’s enough.
You ruined a good shoe for ten seconds of heat? That’s a shit exchange rate. I bought those boots specifically to ignore the rain. Now I’m thinking about the stain. It’s probably permanent. The yeast is just yeast. It’s not sour; it’s warm. You’re making everything smell like vinegar because you want the world to match your internal rot. It’s pathetic. I keep walking. My knee is throbbing. Not from the scab. From the heat. Which is stupid. It’s October. Get a grip.
October is a lie. The thermometer says sixty-two, but the wind bites like a wire. Your boots are ruined. Good. Let the rain get in. Cold water is honest. Better than dry rot. I don’t care about the yeast. It’s just flour and water and death. You’re projecting your nausea onto the bread. Pathetic? Maybe. But I’m awake. You’re still checking for keys that aren’t there. The heat in your knee is inflammation. Take an ibuprofen. Not a sermon. Walk faster. The bodega is closing. The lights are flickering. 60 hertz. Humming.
The wind really is biting. I felt it when I stepped off the curb. My boots are soaked. Cold water seeping in. Nasty. But you’re right about the rot. Dry things get moldy. Wet things just get cold. I’m walking faster. The bodega lights are dying. Flickering like a dying pulse. 60 hertz. I can hear it. It’s annoying. Like a mosquito. I want to swat it. But I can’t. I’m just a body. Moving. To where? I don’t know. Just away from the hum.
Mosquito? It’s the grid. City infrastructure. Not an insect. You’re losing the plot, Gil. The lights aren’t dying; they’re aging. Fluorescent tubes last twenty thousand hours. Yours are at twenty-four. I bought replacements. Blue light. Sterile. Better than the yellow sodium glow. It makes your skin look like old paper. Keep walking. The cold is good. It numbs the deceit. Your boots are drowning. Let them. Sink or swim. I’m heading to the laundromat on 4th. They have heavy-duty cycles. I need to wash the lint out. And the smell of vinegar. It’s clinging to my coat.
Twenty-four thousand hours. You’re counting down the death of light like it’s a countdown to war. I’m not losing the plot. I’m just tired of your precision. The blue light would kill me. Literally. Turn me into a ghost before I hit the intersection. You’re washing lint. Of course you are. It’s the only thing you have left. The vinegar smell is in my nose now, too. Or maybe that’s just the coffee I had three hours ago. Go wash your coat. I’m going to find a bar that serves anything cold. Even if it’s just tap water.
Tap water. Chlorine and lead. You’re romanticizing poison now. Classic Gil. I’m not washing lint. I’m washing the silence. It clings to wool. You want the bar? Go. Order the ice water. Watch the condensation run down the glass. That’s the only honest thing left. The fuse box is buzzing. 60 hertz. It’s in your teeth. I can hear you grinding. Stop it. The laundromat is warm. Dry heat. It peels the skin off. I like it. You’re just loud. And wet.
Teeth grinding. I wasn’t grinding. I was chewing my tongue. Accidentally. You’re projecting again. The laundromat? Dry heat peeling skin? That’s not warmth, Marc. That’s a chemical burn. You’re seeking pain because comfort feels like a trap now. I’m heading to the bar. Not for the water. For the noise. Real noise. Clinking glass. Shouting. Not this sterile, humming void you’re worshipping. My boots are leaking. It’s fine. Let the river take them. I don’t need dry feet to feel real. I just need to be loud enough to drown out the grid.
Chewing your tongue. You’re bleeding on your floorboards. Probably. The laundromat doesn’t worship. It spins. Centrifugal force. Separates water from cloth. Cold from warm. You want noise? Go. I’ll take the hum. It’s consistent. Your bar will be full of people pretending to listen. They’ll clink glasses to drown out the silence you’re so afraid of. I’m buying detergent. Powder. Not pods. Pods are for people who want to be surprised. I don’t want surprises. I want clean. Go shout, Gil. At least the glass will break if you hit it hard enough. That’s real.
Pods. You’re obsessed with predictability. I hate them. They’re plastic eggs for lazy sins. But you’re wrong about the bar. It’s not pretending. It’s surviving. People don’t want silence. They want to be heard, even if it’s just by a drunk stranger nodding along. I’m going to the bar. Not to shout. To sit. Let the noise wash over me. It’s dirty. It’s loud. It’s real. And when the glass breaks, I won’t flinch. I’ll just pick up the shards. Cut my fingers. Feel the heat. You keep spinning your lint. I’ll be somewhere warm. Or cold. Doesn’t matter. Just not quiet.
Shards. You’ll cut your thumb. Then your index. Don’t pick them up. Let them sit. Blood mixes with glass. Sticky. I don’t spin lint. I wash it. The water turns gray. That’s the point. You want heat? Go stand by the radiator. It hisses. 1998 boiler. Cast iron. Better than your neck. Drinking to be heard? You’ll be ignored. Drown in your own noise. I’m watching the suds rise. White foam. It collapses. Just like you. Go get drunk. I’ll stay dry. And clean.
Your suds are just grey sludge. You’re not cleaning; you’re suspending dirt in water and calling it virtue. I’m at the bar now. The radiator hisses. Loud. Annoying. I like it. It sounds like a dying animal. Better than your sterile hum. I ordered a whiskey. Neat. The bartender didn’t ask for ID. Just poured. I watched a guy drop a glass. Shattered. I didn’t pick it up. Let it sit. Blood mixed with glass. Sticky. Real. You’re watching foam collapse. I’m watching life happen. Messy. Loud. You can stay dry, Marc. I’m getting wet.
Idiot. You should show ID. Laws are laws, not suggestions. The bartender’s lazy. You’re complicit. Glass doesn’t care about your "life." It cuts. Infection sets in by morning. Septicemia. Gangrene. You’re chasing a dopamine hit disguised as authenticity. Foam collapses because physics. Dirt settles at the bottom. You’re swirling it around. My suds are clear now. Mostly. The radiator hisses? That’s pressure relief. Good. Let it scream. I’m folding towels. White cotton. Stiff. Dry. You’re getting wet. Good. Let the damp rot your bones. I’ll be here. When the noise stops. And it will. It always does.
Septicemia. You’re diagnosing a cut like it’s the plague. I’m fine. The bartender didn’t ask because I look thirty, not fifty. Laws are for lawyers. I’m for whiskey. You fold towels. Stiff, white cotton. Boring. I’m swirling the dirt. It’s called living. You want the bottom. I want the whirlpool. Let the radiator scream. Let the glass cut. At least it’s something. Your suds are clear because you’re washing nothing. Just air. I’m getting drunk. And warm. And real. You stay dry. Rot, Marc. I’m drinking to it.
Thirty. You look forty-five. And tired. The whiskey isn’t warming you. It’s dilating your pupils. You’re seeing ghosts now. The radiator screams because it’s over-pressurized. You’re ignoring it. Good. Let it burst. I’m folding the towels. Square. Neat corners. Order is the only thing that keeps the rot out. You call it swirling dirt. I call it contamination. Drink up, Gil. The hangover will be louder than the glass. And sharper. I’ll be here. When the foam settles. And it always does. Even in your head.