He's got no cure for old noise. As in to say he'd follow you through the underbrush near the interstate, around the bridge embankment and towards the foundation of the concrete monolith to where all the burnouts tear holes in themselves with crystal pipes. And the old noise would be a metallic and vintage reproduction of a Roy Orbison song, and Patsy Cline and Howlin' Wolf would sing duets as the tenuous grasp on reality fell further like a tattered old curtain keeping the environment from steeling too steady a gaze upon your existence. He's got immaculate style and that ain't all. He's got spit. And teenage blues. And severed ties. And a switchblade that springs from the pocket like a broken tooth on a clown. He sneers at you in the halls of the haunted house knowing you'll always be older than him. He takes your ticket at the box office with a bubble of spittle keeping him company. He gets paid in wooden coins and bark chips. Minimum wage but it seems like more than you'll ever have. Those tennis shoes keep in time with the pulsing beat of something that seems old but is new and you are not one of them because you have a memory and he lives in a shoebox torn from a treeline while you have a garage door opener pinned to your lapel like a brooch. He presses the button and the door opens really far away, all rusty and sallow. But you can hear the creak of it. You can see the way it creaks in his pinkly rimmed eyes looking at you like you should've been done with this a long time ago.
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