Henry’s phone (cell phone) didn’t ring much. In these days a phone call often lead to an event—a date, a good meal, long nights of passion.
Things fell into place without much protocol, the meal just a wash and the sex even quicker— life losing its thrill value in the age of social media.
Dreams still marvelous for Henry, all of it turned him on. Dreaming about anything, dreaming at any speed, dreaming about sultry Negro ladies dancing in a corn field wearing banana leaves. Dreaming about baseball, Negro fellas with big fingers catching baseballs in their caps and whisking them about, playing hialeah in Cubano nights.
Or— a Chinese gal in a third floor loft, the walls full of paintings and photos of red flowers, a feng sui arranged dust covered open space— she, sharing love and jasmine smiles for gold coins.
Dreams aside, living still a boon for Henry. The head-stuff was the best, he lived there most the time, it was his place and there was nothing like it. It (the head-stuff) was the easiest thing in the world, it played out for him in slow motion. The outside-stuff very different, speeding by unconsciously, dancing and shaking to empty and dumb syncopation, it wasn’t important to Him anymore.
In the final count—Henry wasn’t “ Back “ he was ”Never there”. None of it was his, he never wanted it anyway. The others, the big folks, the ones who wanted it disparately could have Henry’s share.
“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.” Henry Miller