Black and White

He sits by himself in his empty, filthy apartment blankly staring at an old black and white photograph of his deceased grandfather. No emotion. Dying. Alone. Rock bottom. He wears an expressionless death mask… a mask of Noh. The windows are open and the blinds are drawn. Rain soaks his shit-brown carpet as the winds incessantly snap the ratted red curtains. The pitter-patter of the rain, the whipping of the curtains, the incessant howl of the wind outside, the faint tympani of ten-thousand cockroach feet, the dry crackling of peeling yellow paint... they're instruments in a mournful orchestra - the soundtrack to his hopeless life.

He’s too lazy to get up and close the window. Or eat. Or jerk off. In fact he’s too un-ambitious to do much of anything except chain-smoke and shoot up. Four cc’s of sweet smack flow up his arm into his heart, up through his brain, and then off to his starving, twitching muscles. The result is a calm, euphoric, relaxed state. Kind of like sitting in a hot tub while getting your dick sucked, back scratched, and feet rubbed. Not a care or a fuck in the world.

The rank stink of the dried shit camping out in his boxers doesn’t bother him much.

Through half-closed eyes he concentrates on the photograph he’s struggling to hold between his thumb and index finger. Although the paper is frayed around the edges, yellowed and brittle from time, the image is unmistakable. A handsome, young man standing before the prow of a battleship. He wears a crisp white naval uniform and an even whiter smile. It's funny, his grandfather looks exactly like he does. That is IF he shaved. Or ate more. Or slept.

The man's mind, prone to distraction, begins to wander. The 50’s… it was a better time then. We knew who the bad guys were. It was a black and white war in a self-contained black and white world. His grandfather’s eyes twinkle with pride and… anticipation? He’s ready to fight the good fight. Kill some kikes or Japs. Maybe fuck a nubile islander somewhere in the South Pacific.

Wait, did he just wink?

The disenchanted son of a bitch asleep in the torn thrift store chair gently stirs… and smiles. He wonders if the image in the photograph will suddenly break into dance or song like Fred fucking Astaire. Or not? He needs something. Answers. Meaning. History. Importance. A miracle. He grasps at shadowy memories. He asks questions. What kind of a man was his grandfather? Who was he really? When this image was captured, in the split second the shutter opened and closed with a whirring click… at the very instant his grandfather’s countenance was forever fixed onto the negative – what was he thinking?

Is there a chance he could have imagined this? For the briefest of seconds and through the foggy expanse of time, could he have seen his grandson sitting in a desolate apartment staring right back? His legacy? His immortality? His failure.

Remember when I'd come and visit you out on Long Island? You were healthy then. You'd sit in your favorite chair on the back patio reading the paper and smoking a cigar... you were always smoking a cigar. I grew to love that smell. It's always summer where we are. I'm catching fireflies and storing them in mason jars. All for you. You're my hero and I'm your little paisan.

I think the last time I cried was the day you died.

Between the rain, wind, and the snapping curtains the man in the chair hears a Pimp shouting at one of his whores out on the street three stories and a million miles below. He's threatening to "slit her belly open and piss on her guts." She begs for mercy. He notices her accent. Puerto Rican maybe?

His thoughts shift to his mother.