Walkie-Talkie, with clarity

"Once more with clarity," the marching band instructor says to the army of instruments below him. "That wasn't...well that wasn't that good."
I think to myself that I've never heard any instructor remark that his students work was bad.
Earlier that day a photographer taught me photography and I was pretty bad. Lacked clarity and vision and I knew. His remarks were good. That makes things interesting, I think, when remarks are good.
Helps with inspiration and inspiration gets you were you want to go.
Quick remarks.
Like Hemingway.
Like that night.
The cool of the evening, before the night heat rises.
There are six of us at the counter and I'm in the middle and she's across from me and the whole situation is weird because the two of us are looking each other straight in the eye and sending volleys of conversation back and forth and remarking in lightening speed that the other's remarks are meaningless, though they are never meaningless. The other four only look at us, consumed.
"Could you do this?"
"The music?"
"Could you?"
"I could never play guitar for a living."
"What do you want to do then?" She asks and I think that earlier I thought she wasn't attractive but in low light and starring straight into the surge of her glare, watching the flicker of life, she doesn't look half bad.
"I don't know."
But then again I don't really like redheads.
"I want to be an actress."
"That's cute. I wanted to be an actor once."
"Did you?"
"When I was young."
"Aren't you still young?"
"Are you a journalist?"
"Do I ask too many questions?"
"You ask a lot."
"He's a journalist," someone tells her, pointing to me.
"Oh. How do you like it?"
"It doesn't pay the bills."
"Then why do it?"
"Heard of Bayern Munich?"
"No."
"Soccer team. In Germany. My dream is to get a press pass."
"Back stage access?"
I tip my drink.
"Really?" She asks.
"No." I say. "It's really the only thing I'm good at."
"Really?"
"No." I wink.
Later that night, in the shower I think about the actress and think about remarks. I'm looking for inspiration. Remarks make such great inspiration.
Minutes ago a drunken phone call with news to break my heart. Something about a loss that is dear to me. I'm looking for inspiration to move on. Move up.
Earlier, before I left the night behind me we said:
"We just walked her home." She points with her thumb in a general direction behind her, talking about her friend, who called me a journalist.
"What about me?" I say. "Who'll walk me home."
"You can take care of yourself."
She throws her arms around me.
"Have fun in L.A." I say.
"New York," she corrects.
"I'll never see you again," I correct, and maybe that is aweful to say because that means she'd fail as an actress, but, whatever.
"It's always a lonely walk home," He says next to me. "But gives you time to think, on the walk home," He says. He is walking out the door, too. "This walk home my mind is vacant, can't think. And I'll drift along alone alive, and thinking that it is good to be alive.
My bones feel lazy.
I think as I leave that I wish there was a train station close and another one close to where I need to be so I could just step on, step off and be there. Without all the traveling my legs would have to do.
I wave goodbye.
"No random quirp? No quick jab as you leave?" She says, the actress.
"Got nothing anymore. No more remarks."
The best 'The End' is just to end.
"See you never."
I wave goodbye.
Gertrude Stein once said remarks aren't literature.
Remarks don't help.
But I'm in the shower looking for inspiration. Tell Gertrude Stein that.