When the world ran smooth in his fingertips, Patrick floated. Sliding along lasted only until the jagged glass of fate. The worst is always the worst. Heavy sighs don't do it justice, fact is, hitting the skids can be pretty demoralizing. Patrick had hit the skids of jagged glass and it was worse, now he was stuck. Being afraid was long past and enduring the pain remained a heroic façade. Drunk was a release, but it also stirred the creative juices like the space in a coffee can filled with plastic cowboys and Indians buried under the loose soil of a front porch. The space that leaks of rust and lingering cat piss only became bearable because Patrick tolerated it. Patrick made the sinking easy, he gave it a break.

Patrick was a food genius before his time. He was a pro with fruits and vegetables. The uncanny ability to pick out fresh fruits and know what was in season was the first and foremost attribute he coddled. Friends always bragged about discovering a band "before they were big", Patrick bragged about different types of garlic and chilies. He knew how to shop and where to go for the goods. Every city has nooks and crannies of ethnicity and tapping into them was the second variable. Patrick snooped around the Hmong markets on Nicollet, picking up; coconut milk, Thai basil, Kafir lime, baby eggplant. The Palestinian place was the hook up for fresh Pita Bread, Olives, and Feta. His ingredients were choice and that was 2/3 of becoming a good cook. He found the import coastal seafood place and ordered dozens of Oysters from bays and inlets and canals from the Pacific and Atlantic, from Maine to Oregon to Japan. He bought a shucker and went to work, popping shells and slurping up day old sea. Presentation came with his love for art.

Being stuck gave Patrick time to give the ordinary a presentation choked full of panache.

  • Julienne Thai peppers served over sliced apricots that fall off the pit., sprinkled with rice vinegar and sesame seeds.
  • pocket Pita sliced in half and filled with; feta, parsley, slivers of garlic, shallots, placed hot over the cast iron burners, shaking it sauté style over the open flame, till it browns and gets crisp.
  • White fish with rice and Kim Chee.
  • Super Bob chicken sandwich (many varieties).
  • Tuna tartar with avocado and sesame seeds.
  • One whole cooked chicken bustin' apart syle, with white rice and Kim Chee.
You get the drift. Kid could whip up three courses in a row without blinking. He just griped about folks "being in his kitchen." He set out with just inspiration and leftover junk in the fridge. What came out was a magic, blissful, culinary spoof on the real gender of the outside things we put in our bodies.

Ignition on. Time to turn it up.

In the briefing before life, the souls around Patrick kept their heads down low to avoid his gaze. When the proctor gave them all the low down, Patrick was singled out and labeled "a savior". Sure enough, at his baptism, a homeless man in a red fez with gold tassel, wearing a too small mink coat, ran down the aisle screaming,

"Praise the Lord, the savior is born. Praise the Lord, the savior is born."

The stigma bottled up with the catalyst of gospel made young Patrick a loose, confused being. All the briefing and potential got lost in the perpetual loss of memory of the events that brought us here. Beings forget the fist 24-28 months of life. Go figure, that's when we learn the most. Patrick never asked for this, and it showed in his apathy beyond the sunset.

Floating around trying to get glimpses of the past before life times, Patrick found himself a miserable mess in the drudges of barley mash. Damn if he couldn't keep it together for a month, fall off the wagon and land right on his feet. He tried this Zen Jedi mind trick on women and it never worked. Sometimes they worked it on him. Girls would slither up and touch elbows with him and reach across his body to get their drinks. Patrick just bent and let them plush his cashmere jacket. They usually smelt good and most had blond hair. They always liked to whisper in his ear and it always made him sweat. His indulgence in their adoration was a superficial hiccup, he did love them for their looks and size four heart shaped asses, but pretty girls are all over the place. These girls were different, they liked him and touched him with a lost intimacy of reeds in a marsh. These girls were different, they dropped Patrick clues about his significance.

When a balding, short, skinny, hairy man is seen with a perky breasted, high cheekbone, blushing, tight ass, summer dress wearing Betty, people have got's to wonder. Patrick had a lip smacking charisma that made folks want more. He could muster up serious knowledge on the topics of tropics. He had well read grits for a guy that was supposed to save the world.

Patrick just did everyday things after a while. Life had knocked him around like everyone else and he wasn't feeling too special. Drinking and writing about how to escape the mundane melancholia of floating nowhere grew old fast and he let his feet scrape the Earth. It would turn out that grounding was important.

As his feet sunk into the mud, Patrick felt his knees buckle with a loss of words. The caps of the joint splated and sank (too) while hopelessness began to bury him. Movement was a futile measure to get in deeper, so Patrick let the apathy of longing overcome. He rested there for some time in the abyss of fetal position, pillow between your legs, curled lip ache. He was weak of life.

His hunger and will kept him going for some time. The girls gave him sweet kisses and money too and when he went out they always insisted on paying. Guilt swallowed hard and Patrick just let go. He put himself to work for fate. Get ready. Get set.


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