Joe and I went to Ikea on Saturday. I bought a new TV stand, my old one caving in on itself like a Halloween jack-o-lantern in late November. Joe gave constant appraisal as I worked through the fun Swedish pictures. He only stepped in a few times, adjusting a mistake or five. I filled all of the new shelves of the TV stand with my ever-increasing pornography collection, my pipeline to orgasm. I’m certain the stand would look better with books, spines that read O. Henry or Melville or McCullers instead of Naked Cops 2 or Czech Circle Jerk or Guyz Next Door, Part III. I have other shelves for books. One for Billy’s books, another that boasts Nash and Maupin and Chandler.
Saturday night, Joe and I went to a little dungeon of a restaurant and ordered bacon cheeseburgers, the meat reminding me of my grandma’s way of cooking a burger, in a frying pan. They sat on a bed of potato chips, the chips absorbing the grease. I licked my fingers, and Joe said he even liked the meal. We waddled back home, stopping at McDonalds for an extra large shake for Joe, something to help absorb the grease, something that would soothe him.
Bloated and soon to be stoned, we watched Lost, America’s Next Top Model, and finally, Dark City, a beautiful film I’d never seen, always wanted to, finally did, and was happy about it. What the film lacked in emotional depth was more than compensated for with achingly beautiful art direction, a loopy plot that had me asking questions throughout, Keifer Sutherland doing a credible Peter Lorre.
Joe fell asleep while we tried to watch The Women, one of my favorite films from 1939, inarguably Norma Shearer’s best work, but Joe fell asleep, the food and pot and constant battle with me taking its toll. I tucked him in on the couch, went to my bedroom, admired the new TV stand.
I woke up Sunday in a rapid mood, wanting everything to happen all at once. This apartment forces me to wake up with the sun, the large windows insistent for my attention. I like it.
I liked Sunday: Joe and breakfast in the morning, Joe and lunch in the early afternoon, reading my assignments the rest of the day, reading Hemingway until I fell asleep at half past six in the evening. I forced myself awake, wrote my letter earlier than usual, turned off all the lights. A bad made-for-TV disaster movie flickered on as I stared at it, thinking about work.
I looked around my new apartment and I liked it. It feels like home.