25 March 2009

Sometimes I wonder . . .

about Dave Baker. and why would I do that? He creeps into my brain sometimes when I'm not expecting such things, and it makes me unsettled. I haven't spoken to him since long before I moved away from Pittsburgh.

I wonder if he still lives in Crafton, in that little apartment less than five miles from my house in Carnegie. I wonder if that couple lives upstairs, with the aging transvestite that asked him for money sometimes for groceries. I wonder if he remembers making me toast at the kitchen table his brother built.

I wonder if he sleeps in that little twin bed in his front room and thinks about what would happen if I knocked on his door.

I wonder if he knows I don't live five miles away anymore.


I wonder if he's still a pompous, half-retarded loser who's shorter than I am, who tints his hair and lies about his age.



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