My Summer Plans

Sometimes life doesn’t move in a straight line. We set out to follow some segment of something from Point A to Point B, but our finger can’t trace it cleanly across the page because there’s a disconnect. A break in the line. When your eye traverses the distance to Point B, you’ll see that part of the segment – the other side of the break – leads right where you originally thought it’d lead, but you can’t, for the life of you, figure out how it ended up there.

You can’t figure this out because what happened, after the line went off course, is too confusing. Someone came along and tried to tidy the thing, but the pencil they’d used had an eraser worn down to the metal ferrule – chewed into a pair of sharp points – and what should’ve been revelatory whitespace is now merely a hole through which you can see the mahogany veneer of your desk and nothing more.

I’m referring, here, to the inexplicable progression of the New York Guido – where Point A finds him bench pressing, injecting Winstrol, fighting, groping, cursing and driving his Escalade (provided he’s deriving his income from something illegal), yet Point B finds him doing this:

What, my friends, happens after the break in the line? Therein lies the key to my heart.