Cauldron of Thoughts: Gilbert

The Novel continues with Gilbert's unfortunate bladder getting him a ticket, and bitterness ensues. His secret voice tried to . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Guimond/LIVIN’ IN THE LAST DAYS















CHAPTER 5--THE CAULDRON OF THOUGHTS (GILBERT)



Between names and reality there lies an abyss..
--Octavio Paz

The playground was situated in a nook of green at Park Blocks’ end. Southward
arced the overpass bridge upon which the sparse foot and bicycle traffic coursed; and
beyond that and above the light-spangled hills the evening stars winked from in between
jagged breaks in the cloud bank. The rusted legs of the swing set lifted and thumped as
Gilbert tried to pendulum-kick his spirit back to equilibrium. He tilted his head back and
smiled at the tickling pleasure in his guts during the downward swoosh. His smile ended
when he spotted the bolts attaching the chains to the swing’s top frame. They jiggled and
creaked with every lurch and lunge. Shavings of rust floated down, dusting Gilbert’s
glasses. Fuck this! he thought, then stabbed his feet into the wood chips and jerked to a

Guimond/LIVIN’ IN THE LAST DAYS 22

halt. The wind gusted from the east as Gilbert’s inner voice gusted from within.
There’s a hundred bucks down the toilet.
Gilbert slapped the ticket in his pocket. Indecent exposure. Was I supposed to
piss my pants?
You know what a pot of coffee does to you.
I need it.
Then maybe you need to carry a buck or two for such emergencies.
Gilbert brooded on the event while eyeing the shifting skyscape. The bright stars
of Orion were rising, obscured or revealed at the clouds’ whim. Seated on the swing with
both feet planted, rocking back and forth he recalled with bitterness his rejection by the
deli and two coffee shops on the grounds that restrooms were for paying customers only.
I had only a quarter, but I’m human--not good enough I guess. Just an unfortunate
accident--like my entire life. And these things are bound to
happen in a society so sick and numb to others’ suffering that one adult can look another
in the eye, point to the door and say “No! You can’t use the bathroom.” Gilbert ashed
his cigarette and passed by an old woman pushing a cart. A blue tarp stretched over the
contents’ bulges, clamped down by bungee chords. Her coughs wheezed harsh and dry.
Civilization itself is a toilet, Gilbert thought, sucking another drag. And by deny-
ing the poor access to its actual toilets, we’re left with only one face-saving option: piss
all over it. By such action the penniless are truly able to give back for all the riches
we’ve been given: it’s the holding up of a special all-sensory mirror so that civilization’s
true, unsavory nature can be clearly seen; its putrefied outhouse reek clearly breathed;
its vile defecations clearly and thickly tasted; its slimy soul-strangulating grip clearly
felt; its, its--
And what will civilization hear in your twisted little mirror?
The wails and curses of we the damned will torment the ears of civilization’s most
zealous, hard-hearted worshippers. Gilbert pinched out the remaining tobacco. It started
to drizzle. My God, that’s it.
What now? Gotta piss again?
I’ll tell everyone that civilization’s a toilet. I’ve found a center at last. That’s
how I’m gonna give back--Bam! Gilbert crossed Alder Street, pumping his fist. And
that’s the way it is. Gilbert whistled up the stairwell, entered his apartment and picked a

Guimond/LIVIN’ IN THE LAST DAYS 25

folded note from the floor. He kicked his shoes off, propped up his pillows and read it
with the bed sheets tucked under his chin stubble.
Spaz! Spite’s takin’ Snory to school on the Lizard business.
They’re fuckin’ with my hand again, so la de da, no more tabla.
Busy with other bullshit though so do not disturb. Hopefully I’ll
die in my sleep. If not I’ll be at Bruce’s tomorrow--Mayor.
PS. The Sun is Cold.
Gilbert dropped the note to the floor and curled on his side, not bothering to hit
the lights. He yawned from the depths and buried his head with pillows. Time to take a
bold antithetical stance. Time to look for openings. I’m tired of being a pussy. I’m--
Goodnight, Pussy.