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T T T

Rain

By: DevlinRyder

I remember the cold rain.  The dark night.  The wind.

It came down like God flapping the skirts of his giant

raincoat, as I huddled against a New York winter. My collar

was pulled up around my neck; it was the only coat I owned,

moth eaten and inadequate. But I kept my vision, sneaker-shod

and scurrying down 8th Avenue. I knew where I was trying to

go, now literally, and of course metaphorically. Always

metaphorically. That's how we philosophers are, always

finding the metaphor, the alternate view, the deeper meaning.

Yes -- so let's just get this out of the way: I am a

musician. I play the guitar. I'm a young man who left

home a few months ago and I'm out trying to find my own

place in the world. Okay. There. I've said it.

I'm a walking cliche.

But how many walking cliche's do you know who've

committed murder, eh? Now I'm a walking contradiction as

well, wouldn't you say? But I find a kind of safety in

both, really. And to be honest, if I had it to do all over

again, I'd do it entirely differently. For example, I

wouldn't have hid the body in the sewer pipe. I probably

wouldn't even have strangled the guy. No. No. I would

have done it differently. I would have used a blunt

instrument against his head and thrown him into the lake with

a cinder block tied around his feet. Let them try to find

that one.

Okay, but this was my first time, and I was stupid, I

know. I'll try to manage it better next time, to say,

before the day is through. Of course there will be a next

time and I'm guessing right around six o'clock this

evening. I'm suppose to meet Jimbo at five. We'll

see if he shows up. Hey, money talks, people. And I've

got a career to see out.