"Yes, of course I remember. Travis, it was called, the type of night shift. Barely spoke to anyone, so do not ask me how he was involved in everything. He chose to do the night shift, I think for insomnia. Listen friend, I did for a while, and do not know what you may see, particularly if you dare to travel on certain streets, Travis did not know why he liked to travel on dangerous sites, liked looking at things in a journal aimed not know, I said he barely knew him, to penalties knew him. Travis was one more, no one knew that walked put the trouble ... you know what the weapons, the girl that the newspapers say is a minor, probably knew her during the night shift. "
Nobody knew who he was. A fool, a sociopath, a wreck unable to function in society, is a misfit? I hole in the apartment he used as a miserable room, dirty and barely furnished. His neighbors knew him not, but that's normal, is a dilapidated apartment building where no one knows, is the last thing they want, a place full of sordid holes where disappear, others, perhaps yourself. Yes, he was in Vietnam, so what? Does that explain everything? No, of course not. He spent hours locked in his apartment, occasionally going to the movies X in the corner, watching life go by, oblivious to it, barely touching him, as if there were.
The taxi was different. Circulating aimlessly in problem neighborhoods, streets full of prostitutes, pimps and tricks, seeing the filth and scum of society, feeding their particular paranoia against the world, pointing to that society of which he was unable to take part. Every night fell willingly into hell, watched from inside his taxi a few blocks of doom, and seeking to justify an exclusion that was incapable of understanding, taking refuge in the stench, excusing and a shattered dream, a stupid dream, dream a vulgar and mediocrity.
They wanted to erect the avenger, avenger "who, what? He met this girl at the election office, worked for the senator. He refused. He wanted to redeem himself through the madness, stop whatever he stubbornly refused, revenge of all, of itself, its misery of life, from his own stupidity. Wanted to be a hero, get attention, make him pay for all, what? When one strives to be a hero, even a hero of his own misery, just getting it. That had to be a prostitute, Iris. Unable to undertake the great revenge himself with the closest, with Iris's pimp. Now is a hero, maybe it's what I was looking for, be admitted again, look for a small corner of mediocrity, a fleeting and ephemeral reputation it no longer remembers. Sometimes I wonder what Travis calls our attention, maybe some time we have all been Travis.
Are you talking to me?
Valencia Tuesday 13 March. Timid sudden winter day was to account
PD The chemical barked. Bark, then ride.
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