“11:20” appears before Travis like a poke in the eye. The midsummer sun is crawling toward the peak of its arc, pissed off once again that the little orb Earth has crept too close in elliptical drift. Rolling over to face the wall, Travis once again lingers over thoughts of beautiful horses trapped by bronze shafts, on a centrifugal cage of motion, before the visions begins to fade and the phone bill’s due date comes into focus, lying on the floor by the nightstand. Travis looks down toward the foot of his bed where his guitar leans, and shut his eyes.

Fifty minutes later it is after noon and Travis awakens again to rude red numbers screaming that his life is drifting away before his very eyes, but maybe life is better when he is asleep—when he isn’t paying attention to his attentiveness. So long as he is carefree, so long as he can leave painted horses behind him… he sighs, long and hard into the pillow. He closes his eyes for another moment, opens them, and looks at the clock again. A minute has passed. Rolling over on his side, he sets his chin on his forearm and watches the numbers for a while. They seem to be moving along faster than normal. A minute seems to take only twenty seconds, and Travis wonders if it is him or the clock that is out of whack. What an annoying feeling it is, that time is passing—that he is actually noticing time passing. It makes him want to get out of bed and at least go somewhere where he can ignore time for a while. He shoves his damp sheets aside, irritated, and sets his feet on the floor. Squinting at the clock, he smiles at himself before he swings his left hand out in a sweeping arc, knocking the clock to the floor with a crash. So there. That feels better.

Putting on clean underwear, clean socks, dirty jeans and a dirty t-shirt, Travis stands in the middle of his room running his hands through the fuzz on his head. He is supposed to shave; supposed to brush his teeth and eat something; supposed shower and do laundry: supposed to have a regular job, and to pay taxes. He is supposed to have a nominal existence that fits him like a cornflower blue, button-up shirt instead of his favorite gray t-shirt, and he twists and tries to set the wrinkles under his arms and around his neck. He is not supposed to be up at night attacking his electric in a purple light for drunken revelers. Looking down for a moment, he realizes he’s put the shirt on backwards. Pulling his arms in through the sleeves, he twists the shirt around in the other direction. Travis looks over to his acoustic sitting against the bed and thinks one last time about all the things he is supposed to do, before picking up the guitar and heading out the bedroom door.

As Travis passes into the living room, he spies Nick sitting on the love seat, his feet propped up on a footstool, sketching. As Travis walks by toward the front door, Nick calls out, “Good morning,” without looking up.

“Yeah?” Travis says, reaching for the door.

“Whatch’ya’ doin’?” Nick asks.

“I’m goin’ for a walk.”

“Oh don’t kid yourself,” Nick says quickly, shaking his head. He continues sketching.

Travis hesitates for a moment and then smiles and decides to take the bait, “What?”

“You’ll never lose any weight that way, fatty,” Nick offers.

“I’ll be back.”

“Whatever.”

“I love you too, man.”

“Mm-hm.”

Read the whole thread: Carousel Cowboy

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