Litkicks Message Board Archive

Blind to the Heads

Posted to Poetry




Hey, first time posting, but please critique, much apreciated. I have no idea if I got the effect I wanted because I already knew where it was going, but anyway here it is.

I didn’t find out I was alive till I realized I had been living alone for four years. In the morning I had a headache. It hurt on the left side of my head and partially over my eye. Out of the left corner of my eye when I looked to the right it seemed like there was a thin layer of film dancing around obstructing the view of my peripheral vision. That day I had to go to my four fingered podiatrist about a re-appointment I had scheduled a long time ago and couldn’t remember when. It all seemed a bit out of place because I really should have went to whatever you would call a head doctor, but not a shrink, I would like to avoid shrinks.
In my car was a medical sent. It stank of latex gloves and ointments for rare diseases but I hadn’t been sick for a long time. I drove a bit, my appointment was not till four. Smoked a cigarette though it did my head no good. Saw some bums in hooded jackets that covered their faces pissing over a bridge – the laughter did my head no good. I tried to spend time till four and it was only twelve or one. I had time to kill cause time was a small and precious commodity that only seemed so big because I was so insignificant by comparison.
I pulled over my car next to the record shop. I pulled over my car into the parking lot. I did a wrong turn that must have been the equivalent of firing a shot. Because next thing I know I was being pulled over by a cop. It was a sunny day and he just kept asking me questions, but I didn’t want to look up at him cause every time I saw the sun shine of his slick, white motor cycle helmet it gave me a headache. This probably led to suspicion cause my eyes wouldn’t meet themselves in the reflection of his square-mile aviator sunglasses. Subsequent drug references aside and his constant attempts to slip me up into saying what I did aside too, the guy let me off with a moving violation which I crumbled and put into my glove compartment (after he left). In my glove compartment were, surprisingly, a pair of gloves. They were old and the leather was chipping, but I decided to put them on anyway to look cool. I got out and walked into the store.
The music was blaring trash, punk-ska covers that hurt my head. The film over my eye dilated and covered a larger area so when I looked to the right I couldn’t see the left half of what I was looking at. I couldn’t see anybody’s faces either. People were just obscured bodies with ovals on top like modeling figures used for pinning on clothes. I forced myself to browse around anyway. Someone nudged me and asked me a question because my shabby appearance made it look like I was making a fashion statement and therefore must work in a record store but I refused to hear him. I couldn’t see human formations either anymore. The more I stared the more people looked just sort of like blobs of nothing. However, objects looked exactly the same as before. I held up an album with an obscure art cover and I could see all the fine lines and definition of the art, but when I looked up the people became less and less. It was with this thought in mind, that what I really had to avoid on the road were objects not people, I decided that I was fit to keep driving.
On the street the people still showed up in my vision, but just as blobs that, if they really wanted to live, would be aware enough to see my car coming towards them. Just for safety I stayed in the middle lane and drove straight so all that I had to avoid were cars. Another two hours, I killed off one with that cop and the record store. In my memory he was now just a cycle helmet and a pair of sunglasses that I couldn’t really get angry at. It was nothing personal; I didn’t remember him as a person. On the street nobody appeared to me save their clothes. My head felt light and all I saw were helmets and boots and t-shirts and jeans. I thought it was bout time I tried to cure my head with some food and water and a couple of pills which I found, reverse-respectively, in a stop-shop and combo, taco-burger stand. I ate methodically but without thinking, only looking at all the blobs passing by wondering, almost indifferently how much longer till the pills punched. I sat waiting there for half and hour and nothing changed. I began to get a tad nervous.
Where did all the people go? I couldn’t see a damn human being in miles, only shirts and shoes. All of them, just amorphous, slightly resembling a human form but without a face, without bare arms or bare legs. It was all so pathetic as if I didn’t remember what people looked like. I doubted whether I should even try talking to one of them and then I realized it was 3:30. I would get my chance at the four fingered podiatrists.
I bursted in through the door and nearly tripped over a magazine table, but there was a line. The nurse motioned me to wait. Good, at least I was recognized, at least I still existed. I was calmed by this. I existed, I was real, this didn’t help any people appear but at least they noticed me in some way if I couldn’t recognize them. I sat looking through a magazine easily reading the print but having trouble with the photos. The nurse finally called me up. I walked calmly up to her window and she asked me if I had an appointment. I graciously handed her my reminder slip for Thursday at four o’clock. The nurse kindly pointed out the date on my reminder card. The appointment was four years ago