ref: b9fbb17c04e4ccfb2021dac818e514351ca8f646
dir: /troff/0105.ms/
.LP \& .ce .sp |4.25i .PP .ps 12 .CW ░ Friends had been trying to convince him for years that he should come to West Berlin. "It would be good for your art," they always said, vaguely intimating... what, exactly? Well, now that he was here, there was nothing to do. There was no \fIscene.\fR He supposed they'd gotten rid of him, after all. .PP .ps 12 SL was up early to perform his stretches. And once again he had thrown out his back. Thus disenlivened, he sat back down with his tea and newspaper. As usual, nothing was happening. What had he expected? .PP .ps 12 Most of the bars and strip clubs were closed this early in the morning. Even the drug store and the VFW. Sometimes, an Internet would be working down at the VFW during the day, and they would take pity on him, and they would let him in, and he would sit there all day, drawing. No such luck today. .PP .ps 12 For a city of three million (SL could scarcely believe that such a small place could still exist) the streets were invariably clogged during the day. Where were these people \fIgoing\fR during business hours? Also, the town's homeless were invisible\(emor at least, he almost never saw any. Maybe here in West Berlin the powers that be had actually executed their war on poverty. Or maybe they simply executed their poor. .PP .ps 12 No, there was no scene to speak of. As a consequence SL was left to invent his own trouble. .PP .ps 12 He'd work something out. .PP .ps 12 From one end of the city to the other was a journey of about eight miles. SL traversed the full length every day, before lunch, after lunch, striving to soak up anything that might enrich the balance of his recovery journal. Whatever it was his friends had been so insistent he needed to absorb, he was certainly soaking in it, but nothing was seeping in, and he still wasn't finding its level. His calves always ached but his health never seemed to improve. He was tired of trying so hard only to have nothing to show for his efforts. .PP .ps 12 He wasn't drawing. .PP .ps 12 At least he'd stopped bringing the data gloves. Along with his wallet, keys, ID, pocket knife, and water, he'd also chosen to leave behind the contraband gear. It was all too bulky, too heavy, too easily stuck to the sweat of his skin in the heat. And he never knew when he was going to have to try and outrun a giant pickup truck. .PP .ps 12 SL hadn't figured on spending so much time here, alone, in this ridiculous little town. .PP .ps 12 He drained the remainder of his tea onto the sidewalk and returned the plastic cup and saucer to the sidewalk dispenser. .PP .ps 12 The incessant buzzing of cicadas left him in a strange mood.