He heaved and cried uncontrollably.
Snot bubbles.
His mom told him not to be unhappy as he buried his face in the desk while lightly holding her wrist.
“Think of the good times you just had and will have in the future —and you can always write something about it”
He always got emotional when someone he loved left him.
He washed his face with cold water in the kitchen sink and blotted his face with his sleeve.
“Have you ever seen such a beautiful woman before?”
The Greek Diner Manager with tattoos and sideburns shook his head and smiled.
“You don’t think I don’t notice such things,” he replied cheerfully.
They both had stolen glances at a Madison Avenue blonde with a ponytail, summer tan, and wearing a smart powder-blue cardigan sweater and elegant pair of short-shorts. They fit so well, one wondered if she knew the all-powerful effect she was having on anyone who saw her —and wanted to meet her —and everything else that might possibly transpire one very lucky day in the future. Maybe. If miracles happen wherein mere mortal men can consort with a Goddess.
Bart laughed at Bugowski.
They had spent the previous 20 minutes looking at iphone photos of Bugowski’s son and the hi-lights from the past two weeks. Father and son stuff. Special and sacred.
Bart had had his heart broken by a beautiful woman whose heart did not match her face.
Bart was without a woman for a good while now too.
He had a routine and he was a good sort.
Bugowski and Bart met for coffee a couple times a month.
If not more than that. They went to high school together.
Bart was a kind and very intelligent person. He deserved better than what he got. But life is unfair. At least he was somewhat free now. Free to walk the streets of NYC in silent meditation and ponder the fates of the Yankees and Knicks.
“ I have a bad feeling about the Yankees”
“That’s funny. I have a really good feeling about them,” said Bugowski.
But really, he wasn’t feeling much of anything at the moment, except partially numb.
It always felt like this.
Bart’s apartment was sparse if memory served.
Spartan even.
No signs that a beautiful European businesswoman had ever lived there.
No essence of an intoxicating perfume wafting through the air or thong panties on the floor.
When he stood in his kitchen now, the sun would steal through the Venetian blinds leaving horizontal bars of light across his face and body.
The father was still thinking of his son. Hell yeah… it had all been worth it just to toss a football with each other and smile.
Just doing stuff together.
The best.
He put his key into the door lock and it wouldn’t slide in.
Which made sense, as it was the wrong door, of the wrong apartment, on the wrong floor.
When he got to his apartment he looked around.
It was full of stuff but it was empty too.
Just messy and dusty remnants of the past. Boxes full of stuff.
There was no one but him there now.
And that was ok, mostly.
There was always money to chase and problems to encounter but no one was there late at night anymore to complain about the jazz playing loudly on his TV set or that he was snoring or that he had left dirty dishes in the sink or had pissed on the floor near the toilet.
No one was pissed at him everyday anymore.
And that was just fine by him.
A man can take just so much before he breaks.
Which he did, in fact. For a while.
But getting punched in the face was part of the deal and most men know that and if they don’t know that by now, they should.
“There are four noble truths according to Buddha. Does anyone know any of them?”
“Life is Suffering” whispered Bugowski.
“Yes” replied Gi-Yun, the head monk and Moby-lookalike at the Zen temple in Midtown, “Life is suffering.”
On the Pacific Coast in a small cabin in the woods, Bugowki’s old pal Joe lived alone too. Drinking too much very strong coffee in between nature walks and visits to the beach.
Her name had been Summer and he was waiting on her but she was never coming back either or so the random girls on the beach who he would talk to occasionally reminded him.
They were not her —and besides they were all either dating someone else or disinclined to take on a new assignment.
“Show a girl your heart, son”, she will recognize your greatness, kid — and she will take your hand and show you the path, you just need to be kind, be yourself and listen and be a good friend. The other stuff happens naturally when two people are attracted to each other. Don’t worry about any of that stuff.”
They had had some good talks while he was visiting.
The kid would find out on his own.
What women do and how they turn everything upside down.
He was going away and he had just left and the father smiled with wet eyes.
Manfred Gogol was texting him now on the iphone. He too, was a longtime bachelor. Alone but with lots of gorgeous women flittering about him always. Instigating endless dramas.
Still, he too was all alone and lived by his own set of rules even though he had an old girlfriend who still lived with him for about a decade now too.
He had just come back from the beach and texted Bugowski photos of a beautiful brunette gallery manager with pale white skin and a body to make Scarlett Johansson envious.
[text: want me to send these to Blake for his magazine?]
[text: Nah, she’s not interested in any of that shit… you need to stay away from those people. They are all reptiles.]
Gogol would have more funny things to say —over coffee …like always —to Bugowski—that would make him laugh. And that was just fine because Bugowski was all alone again.
It wasn’t the final divorce papers on the table that confirmed that fact.
It was just a feeling that guys get when there is time to read a Sherlock Holmes story, take a crap with the bathroom door open or do the laundry and not fold the clothes properly. Just throwing the boxer shorts and t-shirts and socks in three disorderly piles on the top of the bureau with complete freedom and abandon.
That was enough to confirm that he and many of his good friends were alike.
Men without women.
Image: – signs for gender – black on a white background.
literally stories 
Hi Adam,
I like how this jumps from one character to the other tied in with the common theme of having no woman in their lives.
Another snap-shot done very well.
As always, you don’t waste a word.
All the very best my fine friend.
Hugh
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Adam
Wonderful artwork as we have come to expect.
This shows the positives and negatives of “one” and “two.” I prefer privacy over loneliness which makes me a “one” sort of person. But there are some people who seem unable to fully commit to either.
Well done once again.
Leila
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‘But getting punched in the face was part of the deal and most men know that’
It’s lines such as that which make this story so very recognisable as and Adam Kruger story. Wonderful observation and then recording – It’s a wonderful skill which you seem to have in spades. Thanks for this – dd
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I agree with previous comments. Your voice is unique and memorable.
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Adam
Great stuff.
As I approach my sixth year without a woman, I can verify the genuineness of your characterizations. I am glad, however, that you didn’t include me, my name at least, in your story. Surely, I recognized myself easily enough. — gerry
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I appreciate the non-traditional narrative arc—more a woven tapestry than a plot. It works well for the themes of loneliness and desperation. Some fine imagery and lines throughout; I especially like “whose heart did not match her face.” I assume the author provided the artwork. Excellent.
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Klug
The apparent randomness of this piece is highly inspiring and lifelike as it actually displays a kind of painful and all-seeing unity.
Fernando Pessoa, another lone soul who loved to wander urban streets, often intoxicated, said: “It’s OK to desire but make sure to do it only in the mind.”
By DESIRE, he meant the kind Dylan talked about in the album of that name (not the pathetic craving after material possessions).
This story is complex, as it explores (and presents) the paradox of living alone.
Many artists need to live alone. The distractions and pressures of too many other people (or just one “special” other person) are simply too much for some people. They prefer to inhabit their own space, rule their own kingdom, and keep their loved ones close through frequent visits and other means. Nietzsche was one such soul. Van Gogh was another.
Of course, they both went “mad,” but N. also said, “He who would make new laws for himself in this herd world must PRETEND TO BE MAD.”
I love this simple line: “No one was pissed at him everyday anymore.” I think many divorced men will agree with Bugowski. And probably some women too (I’m speaking as a man here since I am one).
Beautiful artwork too, as always. Truly.
I always get excited when I see another work by you. And you never disappoint. I haven’t been to NYC in a long time but you remind me of what I liked about The City (and what I liked about it had nothing to do with the frauds and fakers and posers that rule it (except maybe now with the new mayor)). Thanks for being a REAL ARTIST, OR an artist of the real.
Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar
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I couldn’t help thinking as I read this (the choice of names being perhaps a clue) that this piece was almost a hop around a bookshelf of writers meeting – Gogol, Bug(k)oski, (William) Blake – that and the oft used title for short story collections (I know of Hemingway and Murakami having this title for theirs). And, what else would such a collection of writers choose to focus on, but beauty and all it’s associated themes. Really thought provoking stuff.
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