Tastes like trouble: VI

…And then I woke up in the hospital. I finished, my story told. I explained everything, and he wrote exactly none of if in his little book.

“Ok then.” He stood up and moved for the door.

That wasn’t good enough for you? Should I have lied to make it more interesting? None of it good enough for your little book?

He sighed, I had obviously stuck a cord. It sounded like he felt he owed me an explanation. He came back and sat down.

I am wearing women’s clothing. The ceiling fan slowly whooping, constantly moving but never going any distance, and he opens his little book to the first page.

“So the war ended.” He sounded unsure. He flipped ahead a few pages, and then back a few. He might have been looking for a particular note. “The war ended.” This time he seemed sure. He paused again. It was becoming obvious that he had not intended to share this information. He flipped ahead a few pages, and looked up from the book. “I track Nazi.” He closed the book.

That was-I began, but he interrupted, “That was, as useful to you as your story was to me?” He moved to the door again. Come on! No way! I was in a bit of shock. I told him all kinds of useful things about what had happened. I felt like what the Indians must have felt when they realized they sold New York for small pocks.

“You shouldn’t stay here.” He said this as the door fell off the bottom hinge and hung bent and crooked from the top. He was a jerk.