He was doing what he loved most: counting and cleaning. It gave him a real sense of purpose. This was a good day for Thurston. He dreamed of being an accountant, he settled for guessing one’s age and weight at carnivals. He was good at it.
Before you write him off as a mere carnie; he was also an established slam poet. One of the best in town, if you like your poetry numeric and accompanied with someone pantomiming window washing. Here is an example of his poetry.
Six Hundred Ways Part 2
“Flambé mambo, seven eight nine.
The bourgeoisie is much more
Obese than need be.
Fuck you. Fuck me. And then,
Fuck you again.
Ten eleven twelve, my junky smile, your indifference.
I roost, sashay, trail off, thirteen fourteen fifteen.
Like my mother who died of Alzheimer’s. Pity me?
Sixteen. Fuck you. Seventeen.”
All the while, Thurston waxed on and waxed off the imaginary window in front of him. If there was one thing you could say about him, he was uncompromising. If there was a second thing you could say, it would be, he’s kinda creepy.