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Window Shopping

I used to think, once, a lot, that sexiness was a direct result of starvation and treadmills…

Story and photos by Vico LaCava - vicolacava@gmail.com
Photo © Vico LaCava

Photo © Vico LaCava

In recent events, it has become evident that motivation is a switch located on the human body somewhere below the brain, activated only through neurological stimulation triggered by luke-warm tea and living room floor. I used to think, once, a lot, that sexiness was a direct result of starvation and treadmills, but, retrospectively, I realize those things only leave you hungry and tired. I have been hungry. I have been tired. It was not sexy.

I went house shopping last night. I have a house already, but it’s old and tilted at irrational angles and filled with things I’m over and, technically, owned by a balding Persian man who wears cabernet cologne and shattered horn-rimmed glasses and won’t let me paint the walls yellow. Beach cliffs, though, have good houses; they are rooted precariously at the edge of the world with large windows and nonfunctional chimneys and they light up the night in shades of orange and make for some strong selling points, and I stand barefoot in the sand, in the wind, perusing with an empty stomach and a credit score of 549.

Photo © Vico LaCava

Photo © Vico LaCava

There were three houses on that cliff in my basket next to a promising future, a boss that respects me and a day that makes sense, but since it was the express lane I had to put something back so I went with the day that makes sense because I’m getting comfortably used to these windy nights and their sand blasted solitude and also I don’t know what a day that makes sense is. I can only imagine it involves a lot of measuring cups and a bible.

I picked out a great house with double doors and circle windows and I figure I can get it when I have the cash, you know, like I can come back for it after I’ve fallen in love with it from far away through the darkness and confusion of the night. I figure I can save money and fix my credit and go to the bank and convince the banker to trust me with more than he should. Then I can pack my old shit up and give the things that are no longer important away and go up the long driveway with a briefcase of sequential bills, bursting with anticipation.

Photo © Vico LaCava

Photo © Vico LaCava

It will turn out the house is not for sale, it’s not on the market, it’s occupied with this family that needs its support and its roof but it won’t really matter because I’ve got these big brown eyes and I know how to use them and so I can convince the occupants that there’s lots of houses in the world and I belong in this one because it makes sense.
The family leaves immediately, still in their bathrobes, and finds hotels at first and remembers only painfully the fireplace nights and wall slamming Saturdays but then moves into a place with just the right feel and never thinks of the other house again except for on really tired occasions when the vulnerability of interpersonal existence feels like cardiovascular Freon.

The first night is fantastic in the new house because life is finally palpable and I absolutely deserve this house, but, quickly, I notice little things, like creaking floors and peeling wallpaper and I can’t recall whether or not it was always like that, unsuccessful layering. Later, after the first rain, there are more leaks than not and I think about the horn-rimmed glasses and how nice it would be to just rent again on a month to month contract, at will, at liberty, but white walls are so empty and I’ve already bought a gallon of Cannery Yellow.

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