The gusting winds gaped into Chaz’s window and stirred furiously with contempt. The signs of restaurants and shops clanged hideously against their mothers, neon babies held against breasts of concrete like a protective mother cradling her baby. The metallic shrieks were like beautiful agony, their small bombs erupting like lava explodes from the volcanoes that drown in the rains of the heavens.
The desperate cries of people dramatically clutching their umbrellas lilted through the air like the busted umbrellas that had been wrenched from their hands, now soaking wet because they’d become exposed to the power of the storm. The chaos was dangerous in its hideous normality, tossing umbrellas and scooters as if they were merely objects in the wind. The face of this chaotic turmoil shuddered kindly in the direction of the rain, a ghost through the mist that was born of its pounding droplets assaulting the street with staccato bullets of power and relentlessness.
The torrential onslaught hissed pathetically through its teeth, begging for recognition of its hideous behavior. It was an inquisitor of death, bowing to its scrambling audience as the curtain of stage was lowered oppressively, the folds of its bloody fabric mockingly stained with fear and contempt, a heaping morsel of terror dangling seductively from the lips of the Gods.
Suddenly, a warbling birdsong of nylon strings began gently wafting into Chaz’s eardrums, tickling the crevices of his brain and filling them with oceans of sound. The subtly-textured acoustic melodies were like a mermaid’s ballad, beckoning a weary shipman with the crook of her seductive finger. The music being played was a cross between Mac DeMarco and some old-school blues.
“Jonesy, play that bluesy riff,” Birdie cooed. Her voice was choked with the exhaled smoke of her second-to-last Marlboro Red. In her hand was a highball glass of straight whiskey, golden and warm, and in her fingers was her lazily burning cigarette, its crinkling embers creeping closer to her fingers, which were in cool disregard to the smoldering flame.
She opened Chaz’s window and laughed in the face of the rain. The neon lights cast a red glow onto the side of her face, which accentuated the sloping curve of her almond-shaped eyes, highlighted by the liberal application of Cleopatra-styled eye makeup which gave her a sexy cat-like appearance. She was cool and playful in the shadow of the dangerous typhoon, safe in the neon womb of acoustic guitar, whiskey, and smokes.
Jonesy’s man-bun bobbed with the rhythm of his playing. DUN-DADUN-DADUN-DADUN-DA, DUN-DADUN-DADUN-DADUN-DA went his guitar, and CLACK, CLACK, CLACK went the ticks of the clock, keeping time with his cool, bluesy beat.
Birdie watched Jonesy out of the corner of her eye, but her gaze was actually fixed upon Chaz, as he nodded his head to the tune of Jonesy’s blues. “Let’s brave this typhoon and buy some more whiskey and smokes,” Chaz suggested.
“Man, you boys really love typhoons,” Birdie replied slyly out of the corner of her eyes. She did a French inhale and then laughed loudly and ecstatically. Jonesy glanced up and smiled to himself while shaking his head with amusement, not to impress anybody, but because he actually was just being himself, wrapped up in his own little world, not a care in the world for anything else but his music and his guitar, a truly real person just existing and exploring in this mad world, finding his way one empty glass and one bluesy note at a time.
“Man, it’s just like, what the fuck?” Birdie said emphatically. “Why should we be stuck inside here, when all the action’s going on out there?” she asked, looking out Chaz’s open window into the direction of the typhoon. “Is that all you got, storm!?” she yelled at the storm, full of life and energy and madness and brilliance. “Show me what you got!” she cried, as the wind and the rain blew onto her crazed and beautiful face.
“Man, what a great night,” Chaz said. “Good people, cool music, good whiskey, good smokes,” Chaz said.
“Here, here,” Jonesy agreed, his head still down and swaying with his music. He did a brief, loud, speedily-strummed guitar riff to accentuate his agreement.
“Fuck typhoons! Let’s go on an adventure,” Birdie exclaimed.
“Right on! You lead the way, queenie girl,” Chaz said. “And let’s add the prefix –mis to this adventure,” he added.
“Haha, hell yeah,” she sang melodically.
“Then we shall toast to Dionysus,” Chaz said theatrically.
“Suck shit, typhoon!” Birdie yelled wildly.
“I’m right behind you, compadre,” Jonesy added. “But if I die, I’ll, like, haunt you assholes until the day you die, or some shit,” he joked. “I won’t scare you, I’ll just, like, fuck with you, constantly. I’ll just do dumb shit like hide your shit, just to fuck with you,” he joked.
Birdie and Chaz shared a laugh at Jonesy’s joke, and then suddenly their eyes became locked into a deep, soulful connection. Chaz knew that secretly Birdie wanted him, and Chaz was just waiting until the right time, until she finally broke up with her long-distance boyfriend who had moved back to the States. He was a real straight dude, but he was out of the picture.
“Let’s make this a typhoon day to remember,” Birdie purred, as she held sensual eye-contact with Chaz, implying that there was something else she wanted to do with him besides just going on an adventure.
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