Written for OLWG# 282
Camila could hear the loud, discordant, hardcore punk music wailing as soon as she steered the 1965 Ford LTD into the sprawling apartment complex parking lot. She instinctively and immediately knew what it was. She parked, left the groceries in the car and scrambled towards apartment 125C, the apartment she shared with her on-again / off-again boyfriend, Floyd, the songwriter. The front door was open. From the stereo, raucous music screamed at a volume adjusted to approximately three dB above the threshold-of-pain. Floyd wore only his “Y fronts” and was seated on the piano bench singing some song that didn’t go with the music, idly plinking on the white keys; an empty whisky bottle lay at his feet.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Camila wailed.
“Floyd?” She yelled, but he didn’t hear her. His attention focused on the television, where girls in miniskirts with beehive hairdos and high white boots were gyrating on screen. She picked her way across the living room floor and turned off the stereo. Floyd looked up at her and smiled. Camila dashed across the room and shut off the TV. The room was silent except for Floyd, plinking on the keyboard and singing an improvisational sheebop bowww bebop woww skiba deba dedo owww. A degenerating dog-end floated in half a glass of whisky that sat atop the upright piano, which, in turn, sat against the staircase.
“Floyd!” she yelled. But she stopped when she heard the knocking at the open door. Two uniformed police officers stood framed on the stoop. Camila rolled her eyes.
the artist, the conformist
understanding / love
This week’s prompts were:
- Oh, no no no no
- watching “Ironsides” on TV
- counting my toes