atmosphere

Author's note: this actually happened a really long time ago, Halloween maybe, but i just found the notebook i'd written it in. enjoy the anachronisms.

"CHRIS!!!!"

i glanced around, my neck muscles twitched, looking for the source of whatever voice had called my name, as the echo reverberated around the parking lot. "hi." finally i looked up and an odd little man with large headphones on waved down from the 5th floor.

"Dude, I gotta...." I searched for a reason to avoid the coming conversation i didn't really feel like having "go to work...." but he'd already headed for the elevator to come downstairs.

the door opened and he emerged with his guitar and ever-faithful street performing equipment. one of those carts employed by hunchbacked old ladies to aid their walking carried the yellow amplifier which, every Saturday night, blared the sounds of Hendrix's whammy-bar insanity across Miyako-machi.

"howreyouuuu?" the usually wide-eyed and alert fellow shifted his weight from foot to foot. if i didn't know better, i'd say he was drunk at 3pm or maybe even back on the junk again. i shrugged.
"fine i guess."

he sighed. "Jen is.... left. Sucks." he and my co-worker had been neighbours. he used to hit her up for cigarette money.
"yeah." Pause.

finally he made one of those random, inexplicable and yet somehow close-to-home comments he tends to make.
"your atmosphere is different."
"what?"
"atmosphere. it's different."
i snickered. "For good or bad?"
"for good."
"oh. well i guess that's--"
"you have terrible atmosphere!"
"huh??"
"but it's good. you understand what i mean?"
"no dude, i'm sure that i don't."

he left for his job ("a secret," he told me), and i stood there scratching my head over whatever the hell kind of ex-junkie Zen he was on about.