Dave’s neuron stash
Dave is a character. His every action seems scripted, his movements choreographed. Dave’s every pronouncement could be a hollywood tag-line. He speaks in the carefully crafted quotes of copywrite-savvy media-midgets.
“This is the gold,” he whispers cryptically; “This is the gold”.
His eyes roll slightly, and you’d think that he was doing it purposefully, an exaggerated insanity expression, which is perhaps the impression Dave had originally intended to convey, except… he’s been doing it for such a time that he has long since forgotten which of his mannerisms are affected and which, if any, are genuine. When does a personal peculiarity or attitude become your own? How long before a memory, subconsciously mugged from someone else’s brain-bank, becomes part of one’s own neuron-stash?
As I sit down, I look over at Dave perching a 5th of his arse on the wall. He is teasing errant flakes of tobacco onto a thin Rizla, the fine golden dust settling into the crevice like sand in the folds of a Pharoah’s parchment. When the construction is finished, he twirls the fresh product through his fingers, a lit baton in the hands of this years cheerleading champ.
“This is The Gold!” he says. And rolls his eyes.