flash friday

I live in a piece of paper…

I used to be the Great Swanzini. Now look at me. My cape has bird shit all over it. My top hat is curled open at the top, like a sardine tin. My magic wand is … flaccid.

I live in a piece of paper. It’s an enormous sheet of paper, twelve feet square, that I dragged into an alley between one art gallery and another art gallery. Every night — or in the daytime, even, when it’s cold — I roll up in it, like tobacco in an enormous cigarette.

At first, I didn’t even have paper. I lay in the alley all night, freezing. But one morning, I saw two girls struggling to carry the biggest piece of paper I’ve ever seen. I asked them what they were doing. We’re from the gallery, the first girl said. Which gallery? I asked. The one on your right, said the second girl. Oh, I said. And then I said, What is it? It’s one of Giancarlo’s discarded drawings, said the first girl, rolling her green eyes. We’re taking it to the recycling bin. Can I have it? I asked them. The proper thing to do, said the girl with the green eyes, for our green Earth, is to recycle it. I hid behind a mailbox and watched them drag the sheet across the avenue, lift the lid of the recycling bin, and toss it in. I watched them re-cross the avenue. As soon as they stepped inside the gallery, I approached the bin, opened the door, and fished out the paper. It had a drawing of a man’s face on one side. The other side was blank.

Even with paper, the nights can be long. Sometimes, reaching into a pocket, I’ll feel a bit of rabbit fur, or a stray card, and I’ll remember. Those nights are the longest.

I found a pencil in The Grecian Isle, a night cafe, moments before the man with the crisp collar grabbed me by the collar and laid me flat on the sidewalk. I took the pencil back to my alley and tested it on the paper, on the blank side. I drew a rabbit, and several smaller birds. Then I drew a man’s face. I’ve never been an artist. But I thought, flipping the sheet over and over, that my face was as good as Giancarlo’s. I tried writing a story. If it wasn’t very good, I don’t think, at least … it made me feel better. Just a little better.

During the day, I write on paper. I’m writing this between the eyes of Giancarlo’s face. At night, I sleep in paper. When I stick my head out the end of the paper to see whether it’s day or night, the people walking by look at me with more disdain than you could imagine. And I feel so degraded. Someone once told me … when you feel like shit, and you’ve long since reached a point of shame, a rung from which one can step no lower, you can feel no worse, not about anything. But I feel so degraded. I feel more and more degraded every day. If I were any more degraded, I’d be dead.

But I used to be the Great Swanzini.

“The Great Swanzini” is from my out-of-print story collection I Am Currently Working on a Novel. If you enjoyed it, kindly consider buying me a coffee.