On disconnection, the reaper, and fanciness

Things for me have been bad. There is no two ways about this. A while back in August, I mentioned meeting someone and commented on the fantastic rarity of such an event. The relation grew toward something, and as I should have predicted from the outset it all came to an end, unrequited and tragic. Such is my lot, I suppose. I hope there is a specific reason the grim gods are so intent on me being alone, because it got tiresome long ago and is now extending into unbearable territory. I won't whinge at length. I would like it if these things closed off. I would like it if the logical understanding that it will never amount to anything would end my constant hope that she'll show up unannounced and things will turn out alright. If you read this, everything I've ever said to you stands.

I met Death on the bus two days ago. I boarded the thing at my normal place, and it was unusually crowded (seeing as I get on at the far end of the line, it's generally just me and some elderly Russians to start with). I sat down next to an elderly gentleman in a dark suit. A fairly nondescript sort, but definitely well dressed and reading something. I sat down and did the same. I had started Bulgakov's "The Master and Margarita" the day before, but I didn't even finish half a page before I hear a very clear voice in my ear ask, "What are you reading?"

I'll note here that I was wearing headphones, and listening to brutal metal at very high volume. I could hear none of the ambient bus noise whatsoever. But the voice rang directly through all the same, so that I was startled. I removed my headphones and told him, and we started talking about Russian literature. I've been on a kick lately, having finished The Brothers Karamazov a few days earlier, which itself followed Tolstoy and more Dostoevsky in the months previous. He was very knowledgeable, and we talked about some of the stranger themes of The Brothers Karamazov and others. I talked about loving the Tolstoy story The Death of Ivan Ilyich and he became animated with agreement. In any case, at a point he grasped the cord to request a stop at 10th Avenue. We said our goodbyes as he ambled from his seat toward the door, but turned to me at the last minute. He looked directly into my face, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were dead black. Shark eyes. "Incidentally," he intoned, "you have two years left."

And with that, he disembarked and set off for parts unknown. I sat on the bus and ran a line of thinking that continues even now. I suppose if it's all true, I can do whatever the hell I want for the next two years. Which brings me to my next thought:

What I will do for the next two years is wear a goddam suit every day of my life. BEHOLD! FANCINESS!!!

A day spent with my associate and heterosexual life mate for manlife, D. Gregory Price, scouring thriftstores and vintage clothing hellpits. I learned a lot in what was my first outing to buy clothes in probably 10 years. Firstly, vintage clothing stores and consignment shops can burn forever in a lake of smoldering magma far under the crust of the earth for all I care. At least those in this city. At least those I visited. Walking into a place like that, my skin crawls. Waifish shopboys listening to electronic noise, eying the world with affected disinterest and honest fear. Expensive as all getout. I walked into one wearing a coat they were, it turned out, selling for $200, which a person can get from military surplus for twenty. Nay, sirs and madames, never again. We fell upon that old standby of the destitute human in need of garments, the Goodwill, aplace where you can bet good money that many of the articles (and probably all of the articles that I purchased) were dropped off after the previous owners' demise. The slacks and coats of fat old dead men are exactly my interest, and are exactly what I got. From this day on, I'll never wear something that isn't a suit again. At least for the next two years, when I will probably end up beheaded by a hatchet wielder.