Dirt

By Jules Okapi

Due to an untimely mishap with a runaway piano, a thief and a homeless lady with a very pointy umbrella, Harold meets an unusual segment of the neighborhood, all of whom live inside a single tree planter box on a New York City Street.

Keywords: absurdist, dark humor, metaphysical, visionary, city life, New York, philosophical, caffeine, coffee, humor, magical realism

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Sun Press
• Release date: Jan 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458013118

Jules Okapi

Jules Okapi has worked as a freelance journalist, writing essays on graffiti art, psychology, journalism, meditation, movies and other topics. Jules has also lived or spent considerable time in India, Vancouver BC, San Francisco, Albuquerque, Portland, Los Angeles, Seattle, New York, San Diego, Prague, London, Berlin, Sydney and Swinoujscie, Poland. She currently lives in McLeod Ganj, India, where she writes full time and does volunteer work. For more information about her and her writing, visit http:julesokapi.blogspot.com

Book preview

Synopsis:

Due to an untimely mishap with a runaway piano, a thief and a homeless lady with a very pointy umbrella, Harold meets an unusual segment of the neighborhood, all of whom live inside a single tree planter box on a New York City Street.

DIRT

Harold knew he was pushing his luck with that fourth cappuccino. He'd never handled caffeine well; he was too drug sensitive, like his mother.

Still, it might have been all right, if it hadn't been for the runaway piano.

Even the piano might have been forgivable. He was, after all, in a reasonably relaxed state, considering his blood to caffeine levels. Not drunk, but certainly oblivious to day-to-day worries as he bounced down the street on brand new, pumped up basketball shoes that he never intended to wear while playing basketball; he abhorred basketball.

He wore state of the art headphones, mouthing silent words to his favorite this-is-my-life-score CD. He was feeling pretty high actually, caffeine, sugar and dairy pumping up his blood, rap music jerking him ruthlessly out of his body with each leaden beat.

He floated.

Which is likely why it didn’t hurt much when the piano hit.

Even after the piano, he still had a fighting chance.

Lying on the ground, bleeding from where his head connected with a concrete wall, blissfully unaware for approximately 7.2 seconds in which he swore he could see all of Manhattan spread beneath him like a topographical map, people moving beneath his feet like ants, rap music still blaring into his eardrums from half-askew headphones—even then, confidence remained high.

What really sent it over the edge was the old woman with the pink umbrella. Or just maybe it was the dog.

The woman wore garbage bags wrapped in duct tape up to each one of her knees, although it was 97 degrees out with 85% humidity and he could see the blocky shape of