Pauly’s End – The first ramblings of an eventual novel?

13 Oct

We are at the end.  Or at least it looks like the end.  Well, looks like the end if I were to imagine what the end would look like.  So maybe we’re not at that end.  Perhaps everything that’s come before provided us with a poor compass for determining what the end will be, will look like, and will come from.  In any case, I’d say the clouds look, at their best, ominous.

My name is Paul.  Pauly for short.  Yes, I know it’s longer, but everyone calls me Pauly.  Not after some tough enforcer member of the mafia, but like a parrot.  I talk.  I talk and talk and talk.  About everything.  About nothing.  I just talk.  Don’t know why, but always have.  Well, always did.  I used to talk.  You see, about three weeks ago, I lost my ability to speak.  That’s probably why I’m writing.  Too much to say and no ability to get it out.  I know what you’re thinking, “about three weeks ago” you lost the ability to speak.  You can’t narrow it down a bit considering it’s such a monumental thing in one’s life unless you’re just six months old or something.  You’d be right.  It is or was a monumental day.  I’m far older than six months and I do remember the day clearly.

It was a beautiful July afternoon in San Diego.  Very unlike this one.  And maybe that gives us hope that this day will turn out far better than the imposing sight of the heavens suggests.  I was minding my own business, which in general, means I was talking to everyone I ran into about my life and theirs and what we should be doing to make it better.  People usually assume I’m uninformed and just annoying, but the fact is I probably know better how to live their life so shouldn’t I tell them?  Would I be offering my best version of who I am if I wasn’t providing my wisdom and insight at every opportunity?  My problem was that I offered so much, everyone tended to ignore it despite how rooted in true brilliance my ideas usually are.

So, as I stroll into Penny’s Cupcake shop, a little boutique cutely appointed and resting quietly on the side of the 101 in Del Mar, I took in the overcrowded surroundings.  I would have indicated the proper nature of organizing the chairs, tables, one register which I would’ve certainly doubled to two, and order counter in a manner that would reduce this mob to a quiet and orderly line, but it was too loud frankly and I didn’t feel like yelling at Penny.  Plus, something seemed amiss.

Now San Diego and it’s outlying vestibules, which would definitely not like the metaphorical implication of the name, is not as large as Los Angeles, but I’m still not on a first name basis with everyone within the County limits.  So, the eighth man in line didn’t stand out as someone I didn’t know, though I was not aware of his name nor his upbringing, but his demeanor and attire set him apart.  In Penny’s pastel infused, sugar dusted little shop, the drabness of this man’s clothing and countenance just didn’t add up.  I was on to something, but wished that my powers of observation had giving way to ESP that told me to go elsewhere that morning for my decadent fix.  Beneath his ruffled canvas coat…wait, ruffled?  That hardly sounds scary or imposing, but I don’t know how else to describe it.  It appeared to be made of canvas or some very rough material, but it didn’t hang cleanly.  And though it was missing some doily like ending to the topper, there seemed to be more going on with his outfit that one might expect, but I digress.

So beneath his rough, canvas like coat, the man pulled a gun.  I say gun, because I’m not well versed in all things firearm and I don’t know when you can call a gun a gun, but this wasn’t a hunting rifle and it wasn’t a handgun.  It was scary, black, and imposing.  He started screaming that he’d “had enough of all the”…it trailed off.  I don’t think he trailed off, but he opened fire and the gun and screams were loud enough to dampen his message.  Or at the very least, lessen the spoken portion of his message.

MORE TO COME on here or in book form.  We’ll see.


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