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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v114) (the January 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Entanglement (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 340 page Jan. - June 2013 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Metaphors of Flight

Chad Grant

    The streets glistened like obsidian under the gleam of stale street lamps and the glower of signal lights, walking in on a cold brisk night as wind whipped through my blazer.
    I dove inside to sulk, trying to forget by drinking away a week’s pay. Forget about not getting the promotion I had so expected from my boss, forget about the rent that had to be paid on the first, and the hacking cough which stifled me with each and every breath I took. A lonesome jukebox was playing Neil Young. It was a Tuesday and the place was rather empty, the Bartender, a burly man of average height, with a double chin and a paunch stomach, was reading the paper and smoking a cigarette.
     I ordered a Rum and Coke, and sat down at the bar, his cigarette smoldered in a glass ash tray brimming with butts. Smoke leapt from the catacombs of the ash tray as I began to cough.
    I nursed my drink precariously noticing a splotch of red lipstick on the brim of my glass, but in my defeat I looked passed it and began to comb the bar. A gentleman in blue coveralls covered with motor oil, with disheveled red hair, long dirty fingernails, and a black and red hat beneath his right underarm, with a gold inscription which was illegible due to its placement beneath his arm, but noticeable from my location in the bar, stitched with an array of crudely ornamental curlicues, was playing pool with another fellow a bit older and with a peppery mustache. The man in the coveralls placed a quarter in the jukebox as another forlorn song raddled through the old brick dive.
    A woman of middle age, looking rather inebriated, stepped inside and asked the bartender for a gin and tonic. I noticed her left eye was badly battered black and blue, crudely glossed over with mascara. I didn’t say a word. She was dressed rather inappropriately for such conditions, soaking wet from the rain, as she took to a seat at the bar closest mine, I also noticed she was carrying a cage draped with a gray cardigan sweater, with a bird inside of it as to protect the bird from the cold. She placed the cage on the seat to the left of her as the bird chirped away. The bartender put down his paper and poured her drink, placing it beside her under a white paper napkin, with a plop and began to the sports section.
    Thoughts of Maya Angelou rushed through my head,
    “Why heeellooo honey!” A smell of three day old beer and cigarettes festered on her breath as she managed to wrangle out a drunken greeting.
    “OOOOOH! I love Van Halen, ‘The world turns black and white, pictures in an empty room.’” lipstick smudged what was left of her pearly smile; I could not help but to feel sorry for her.
    “Want to see my burrdie?”
    “Yeah,” I said nervously “Sure.”
    “Its name is Buford.” It was green and yellow with a waxy beak and smooth green feathers, perfectly dry.
    “I. . . I jussss got him taday.” She muddled, as she gulped down the rest of her gin and tonic.
    “Hey Joe, I’ll pay her tab. ring me up.”
    “AWW! You’re such a sweetie!” she said.
    “Um, Thanks.” I managed to utter.
    She finished her drink and stumbled to the door.
    “It’s fuckin’ freeeeeeezin’ out here!”
    I stepped out into the cold midnight air after her.
    “Fuck it! Here take my jacket.”
    “Geez! Thanks honey!” She gave me a firm wet kiss, leaving a remnant of red lipstick on my cheek. Liquor and old cigarettes fouled her breath as she staggered off disappearing from my view.
    I walked to my car, fumbled for my keys, opened the door and wept.
    The ardor fades, impish attempts at translating Whitman in the bitter cold of a November night . . . At least I had another coat at home.

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