Blackie Rutherford
by Dan
Please note: MP3s are only kept online for a short time, and if this entry is from more than a couple of weeks ago, the music probably won't be available to download any more.



You Won't - "Three Car Garage"

Blackie spit on the sidewalk and it looked like a pack-a-day corn flake. The night was pink and fresh and the garbage air was wafted warmly away by eastbound breeze. Blackie pudged a ripple between the place where her shirt stopped and her skirt started, her fuzzy cheetah-print spikes tensed her strong calves taut. At 33, this life was no longer a life for Blackie, she wanted a change. She wanted a ring.

Up walked Zbigniew, Zbiggie as he was often called, and she looked him up and down with mild consideration. He was tall, out of shape, he hid his figure with a dirty black trench coat, even in the summer. White socks with sandals shone beneath. Plus he dealt with mail-order brides, which seemed like a negative. Though, at this point, it could be a positive. "You dancing tonight?" he asked, in that hopeful happy puppy way. "Wouldn't be here otherwise," said Blackie, and fed her smoke into the breeze. Zbiggie went upstairs and nodded at the doorman.

Next was Malcolm, in his ratty same-coloured suit. Malcolm was definitely not a contender. People like Malcolm were the reason Blackie wanted out. Everything about him was sad. Even his glasses were sad. He had these old plastic frames that were yellowed in places, held together by scotch tape. His glasses were taped, his suit seemed like it was taped, even his hair seemed taped, shiny and pressed to his head. His whole life seemed held together by scotch tape, like it would all give way if he sweat too much. And he sweat all the time. He seemed to sag through life, unresponsive, like a moving piece of furniture, or a ghost.

Last up was Faruq, the Egyptian. Faruq had curls, big loose curls, gleaming with gel. He had a tight white shirt, with a flower pattern on it, and big white sneakers with silver details on the sides. He had a car that talked to him, Blackie had taken a ride home from him once. He would say, "Play music," and it would say, "Playing music," in a computer voice. A lady computer voice, which he called Maria. Blackie had turned Faruq down before, but she was tired and hadn't eaten and was angry with her boss. Today they chatted about her shift and the dances she planned to do, and all the ways in which the city was falling apart. She lit another cigarette just to stay outside, and looked through lashes at Faruq, "What are you doing on Saturday? Do you think you could help me move?"

[Buy Skeptic Goodbye]


Posted by Dan at August 16, 2011 3:01 AM


Posted by Rob at August 18, 2011 3:36 PM

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Sean Michaels is the founder of Said the Gramophone. He is a writer, critic and author of the theremin novel Us Conductors. Follow him on Twitter or reach him by email here. Click here to browse his posts.

Emma Healey writes poems and essays in Toronto. She joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. This is her website and email her here.

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Dan Beirne wrote regularly for Said the Gramophone from August 2004 to December 2014. He is an actor and writer living in Toronto. Any claim he makes about his life on here is probably untrue. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.

Jordan Himelfarb wrote for Said the Gramophone from November 2004 to March 2012. He lives in Toronto. He is an opinion editor at the Toronto Star. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.
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