| rev:text
| - David went to Louis's house, as was his habit when he was bored. He burned for attention, desperately. He needed an audience to thrive, and Louis would deliver, without fail. So yanking the creaking plywood door open, he clattered up the hollow stairs, and burst into the stuffy, second-story apartment.
Louis lay spread out on the bed in cutoff dungarees and a grey wifebeater. He looked sour. Tufts of chest hair stuck out from the top of his shirt.
David nervously clutched several slips of paper in his hands. He was going to read his writing to Louis. Louis was a terrible writer, and the meanest, harshest critic David knew. David liked critics. He liked people who looked at him meanly, and yelled often, and never said nice things. These people helped him remember that he was, as he often thought, no damn good.
But none of this mattered to David when in Louis's presence. There, he was many things - a half-cocked madman, a narcissist, a man emboldened by whiskey and chasing dreams that would never materialize.
"Yeah, hi," said David rudely. "I was in the neighborhood."
"So I see," snapped Louis, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. "So tell me. Why of all the goddamned places in the world would you waste your time here?"
"Well, you know Louie, that's not very nice. I was thinking of you."
"Huh. You were, huh?" Louis paused, picked up his Wolf Parade album from his dresser and absent-mindedly polished it on the corner of his shirt. "Well. Tell me. Do my calves look big in these shorts? I mean I'm Italian. They're huge, naturally, right?"
"Jorts," David corrected him. "They're jorts. Now, I'm going to read some stories I wrote. Let's stop with this silliness."
"Do you think I am SILLY?" snapped Louis. "Let me see what you got there. Come on, give it."
David yanked his fistful of papers out of reach. But Louis was taller and he easily wrested them away.
"In earthly distant lands, I dreamt of fish children gambolling on distant moons. A great noise crescendoed across the galaxy, a terrible roar filled the air and..." Louis read in a sing-song voice. "Yeah, ok, that's good." He sniggered, threw the student newspaper clip to the floor and picked up the next.
"Here we go...oh boy!" he whooped, clearing his throat. "Lycanthropes have invaded our amygdalas. The Mugglewumps have colonized the feeder cell, and the universe is half-past tea."
"Were you high when you wrote this?" Louis demanded.
"NO" shouted David.
"Ah, you were manic. Yes, you were. I can feel it in the words."
"No, for fuck's sake, no I WAS NOT MANIC."
"Ha ha, you were high as SHIT when you wrote this. I can tell!" Louis announced triumphantly. He threw his Pall Mall onto the dung-brown carpet and ground the butt out with his boot for emphasis. "I'm bored with your shit, with your little-baby shit. Tell me. Tell me really, David...WHY did you come here again?"
"Forget it," said David. He paused and backed into the corner, twirling a long golden curl around his finger. Suddenly, he brightened and bounded up to Louis on coltish legs. "Let's go to the Brillobox!"
"It's not open TODAY," Louis growled. "They're on vacation. They're on that god-damned vacation every August. You know? You KNOW." Louis collapsed against the headboard, sighing and fishing around for another Pall Mall. He hoped David would leave so he could pick up some cigarettes without buying his perpetually broke, sometimes-sidekick a pack.
David laughed and shimmied his butt in front of the sagging window, which faced a grey, garbage-strewn Liberty Avenue. "THEN, my dear Louis, we are going to the DANCE PARTY at BELVEDERE'S!"
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