DICEY BROWN MAGAZINE

February 14, 2008

BYE BYE

Jimmy Chen

Ben Marcus is not a writer. He is an alcoholic. He paces back and forth inside his small apartment, over-looking the river. There are many piles of books stacked everywhere. When attractive women come over, he nonchalantly moves the piles of books aside so that they can make their way to the minimalist sofa. The minimalist sofa cost ten thousand dollars. It is from Finland, and is the most expensive thing he owns.

Ben Marcus is standing in the middle of his apartment. He is holding a gin and tonic. "I need limes," he thinks. He walks over to the minimalist sofa, sits down, and furiously rubs his head until he sees dead skin cells fall to the floor. "I need to exfoliate," he thinks. The sun is either setting, or rising. He cannot tell because he has been up for the last thirty-six hours reading Proust.

Ben Marcus tells attractive women that Proust is complicated. He has not left his apartment for one week. There are twenty-one empty Chinese takeout cartons. "Kung Pao chicken is a great concept," he thinks. Ben Marcus is not enjoying Proust as much as he would like to. The window rattles from the bass of another stupid song, pounding from somewhere where people have less taste. America is in decline.

The sun is at such an angle that it shines through a window, through the entire apartment, and through another window, leaving an orange square of light on the building next to his. Inside the square, there is a shadow of a man. By now it is obvious that the sun is setting. Ben Marcus waves at the shadow, and the shadow waves back.