The streets have no name

Talus was propped-up on the side of the Motel 2. He was actually laying next to the motel and his head happened to be against the side of the building. He had not intentionally done so, he was too drunk to do anything intentionally. His head wobbled as he tried to turn it toward the noise. A party was in the streets. He squinted to see, but the effort only made him more confused. With his eyes closed, he searched for the bottle next to him and drank the last of whatever was in the bottle. He tossed it rather weakly aside. The rain confused him. He felt the wind and heard the laughter from the crowd and nothing made sense. Particularly why he was laying next to the motel on wet pavement, with no coat. He shoved himself up to his elbows only to discover that he was missing his left shoe. Did he not put on another one after he threw the first one into the street? Confusion returned with a gust of wind and the rain annoying his face.

"Up, Talus, up." He murmured. "Up." As he got to his feet feeling as if the ship just left the dock, he saw Schaffer the writer, hurrying down the sidewalk toward the Waffle House. Schaffer had told Talus about his novel once while they were riding in the elevator. Trying not to look drunk, Talus took a step forward hoping to get Schaffer's attention, but he stepped on a piece of glass with his shoeless foot and cursed. He lost his balance and fell over, landing on his shoulder in a puddle. The rain kept up its pace. Talus couldn't remember whether or not he had put on another shoe after he had thrown the first one in the street. He again pulled himself up by using the rough edges on the bricks of the building. A gust of wind pushed Talus against the building, wafts of smoke, and a group of homeless men stumbled by gesticulating and talking about the lights, the "spaceship," and eying each other as if they were looking at each other for the first time. Talus thought the apocalypse had arrived. His head started throbbing. If he didn't find shelter he knew he would die. Hungover, shoeless, blown about by the tempest like a discarded newspaper he made his first move. Then he saw a tent tumbling toward him. As he tried to move the tent followed his movements. As he ran toward the apartments, the tent followed wobbling and lulling like a pirate ship chasing its bounty. From a distance, both man and tent looked as though they were caught in a turbulent sea heading into the unknown.