A right turn off Shattuck, and cafés and bars and beery, stubbled boys are swallowed up in silence. On either side are close-buttoned houses like sleeping hobbits; I smell rustling trees, unfolding quietly in the dark.
The street rolls under my feet, dreaming of the day's bicycles and cars and dropped keys.
I walk for blocks, checking the address. I should be getting close, but still it's houses and pumpkins on porches and harvest wreaths. I'm not sure I want to get there, I could spend a while here between the sleeping houses, but then I see a pool of light on sidewalk, the sandwich board set out front.
"Here for the Science Review?" asks the waitress.
"I'm here for the band."
They're setting up in the next room, but it's reserved for a collection of beautiful college geeks. I find a place on the fringe, where I can see.
She tests her accordion, a lock of blond hair falling into her face. He tunes his guitar. They play loose and easy. You haven't lived until you hear Princess Yum-Yum sing to a calypso beat and accordion.
The accordionist's brother arrives late in the second set, as the last of the college scientists are wandering out, a last shining look toward the musicians. Brother stretches his legs out under the table and points his iPhone in their direction.
At the mercy of BART schedules, I don't stay long after the show. Back in SF, walking home, I pass a café with people spilling onto the walk. Three hairy white guys are playing hot bluegrass. The one playing harmonica has a washboard hanging from his neck; it sprouts shining cymbals and tiny drums and mysterious noisemakers.
Down South in New Orleans, they sing. The prettiest girls I've ever seen. Did the band in Berkeley sing the same tune? I'm pulled in. They're rocking the place, and I'm in the crowd, stomping and clapping.
It's late before the place closes down, chairs taken in from the sidewalk. I take the long way home, down empty streets.
We're very wide awake, the moon and I.
Showing posts with label SF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SF. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Bikinis and swimsuits accepted
The eastern half of Dolores Park is still in sunlight, but I'm in shade. There are bodies scattered over the slope, the woman selling empanadas, the man with marijuana chocolates. Two people are rolled into a blanket, a bare foot showing at one end, a hand at the other.
Just downhill from me is a crusty old man in baggy jeans, no shirt. While I watch, he stands up and unbuckles, sliding the pants down over his hips. Saggy old white man in saggy whities. Or former whities, now nearly transparent and the color of old bones. He reaches a hand down the front of them and roots around in there, and I wonder if we'll get the whole show; nudity is all the rage these days, I'm told. But he pulls his hand free and lies face down on the grass, arms out above his head. He looks like someone flung him there.
I stand up and make my way down the hill, toward Valencia. A boy sitting on a stoop nods at me as I pass, then says something I don't hear. I stop and turn. "You have a great smile," he says.
I'm looking for a cafe described by a Litquake volunteer, and almost miss it. I was distracted by the woman talking about how her bullet hole is still sore.
In the back, by the bathroom, is a poster advertising Halloween festivities here. Costumed guests will get two beers for $8. Bikinis, it says, and swimsuits accepted.
It's dark as I walk home past the tennis courts. I can hear the pok pok of ball against racket, see the green of the balls glowing against black sky.
Just downhill from me is a crusty old man in baggy jeans, no shirt. While I watch, he stands up and unbuckles, sliding the pants down over his hips. Saggy old white man in saggy whities. Or former whities, now nearly transparent and the color of old bones. He reaches a hand down the front of them and roots around in there, and I wonder if we'll get the whole show; nudity is all the rage these days, I'm told. But he pulls his hand free and lies face down on the grass, arms out above his head. He looks like someone flung him there.
I stand up and make my way down the hill, toward Valencia. A boy sitting on a stoop nods at me as I pass, then says something I don't hear. I stop and turn. "You have a great smile," he says.
I'm looking for a cafe described by a Litquake volunteer, and almost miss it. I was distracted by the woman talking about how her bullet hole is still sore.
In the back, by the bathroom, is a poster advertising Halloween festivities here. Costumed guests will get two beers for $8. Bikinis, it says, and swimsuits accepted.
It's dark as I walk home past the tennis courts. I can hear the pok pok of ball against racket, see the green of the balls glowing against black sky.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Downpour
Scattered showers were predicted.
It's mid-afternoon, and a sudden crush of rain halloos and stomps and clatters on the roof. The smell of softening earth springs close behind and I lift my head from my stuporous glaze. I gather up raincoat and umbrella and dash for the stairs while co-workers tsk.
Sacramento street is a crashing river, gutters overflowing until the two streams meet in the middle of the road. I leap as broadly as I can, umbrella high, knowing I'll never clear it and not caring, it feels so good to leap, and I laugh, splashing to my shins, the water sucking at my jeans and slurping over and into the tops of my boots, my socks turning squishy and damp.
I skip my way to the park at the top of the hill, to the top of the park, where bulldozers stand, water puddling in the open seats. I can see the city below, snugged into fogbanks.
One other human is at the top of the park among the giant trees. We hold our umbrellas as lightly as helium balloons. Tufts of reddish hair decorate the perimeter of his bald head, and he grins.
Another rain lover, he says. He was visiting a friend in the hospital when he heard the clamor and had to get outside. He's lived here thirty years, but he still misses the thunderstorms in his hometown in Pennsylvania.
We bow to one another and continue on the way. My jeans are wet to my knees, and my boots won't dry for a day, maybe two. I don't care. I can turn up the heater at work, eat soup for dinner.
The rain backs off, tiptoeing away in squishing socks. When I circle back to Sacramento, the rivers are gone, already gone, the street clean and shining in their wake.
It's mid-afternoon, and a sudden crush of rain halloos and stomps and clatters on the roof. The smell of softening earth springs close behind and I lift my head from my stuporous glaze. I gather up raincoat and umbrella and dash for the stairs while co-workers tsk.
Sacramento street is a crashing river, gutters overflowing until the two streams meet in the middle of the road. I leap as broadly as I can, umbrella high, knowing I'll never clear it and not caring, it feels so good to leap, and I laugh, splashing to my shins, the water sucking at my jeans and slurping over and into the tops of my boots, my socks turning squishy and damp.
I skip my way to the park at the top of the hill, to the top of the park, where bulldozers stand, water puddling in the open seats. I can see the city below, snugged into fogbanks.
One other human is at the top of the park among the giant trees. We hold our umbrellas as lightly as helium balloons. Tufts of reddish hair decorate the perimeter of his bald head, and he grins.
Another rain lover, he says. He was visiting a friend in the hospital when he heard the clamor and had to get outside. He's lived here thirty years, but he still misses the thunderstorms in his hometown in Pennsylvania.
We bow to one another and continue on the way. My jeans are wet to my knees, and my boots won't dry for a day, maybe two. I don't care. I can turn up the heater at work, eat soup for dinner.
The rain backs off, tiptoeing away in squishing socks. When I circle back to Sacramento, the rivers are gone, already gone, the street clean and shining in their wake.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Midnight
Mr. Billy and I are on the number 6 bus late on a Friday night, heading home after a play. Across from us, in the backward-facing seats, is a man and a woman. They're both wearing headphones.
She is looking out the window at the passing city. Her hair is pulled back in a bun. High, aristocratic eyebrows and composed mouth.
He looks vaguely in front of him. He's tall and loosely strung, large, freckled ears. One giant paw holds his iPod, the other holds his phone, each at the ready. In case. His mouth is open, like he'd been stunned by a bright light.
I'd assumed they were a couple, but as the bus trundles out of downtown and up Haight, I see they never once look at each other. I wonder if they know each other at all, if maybe, complete strangers on the bus, they are feeling the bare contact of thigh against thigh while looking away, denying the flirtation, their bodies exchanging lustful heat entirely against their will.
I look up at Mr. Billy, but when I look back, her head is on his shoulder. A couple, then. Still no words, no change in his expression or hers.
The bus is nearly empty, a lighted capsule in the speeding dark. We've passed the Masonic and Haight stop, where most of the passengers heave themselves from their seats and out to the street; our couple remains.
She's lifted her head from his shoulder and is looking out the window again. Not once have their eyes met, not once has one even tried to look at the other.
Suddenly she gets up from her seat, skirts neatly around the man's long legs, and is waiting near the door, her deep eyelids lowered as she gazes coolly at the floor.
He stays as he is, stunned face, devices held out in front of him like the reins of a horse, until the bus stops, and he's up and out on the sidewalk beside her, the bus rolling on; I'm unable to catch more than a glimmer of her legs beneath her pencil skirt in the dark, and then they're gone.
She is looking out the window at the passing city. Her hair is pulled back in a bun. High, aristocratic eyebrows and composed mouth.
He looks vaguely in front of him. He's tall and loosely strung, large, freckled ears. One giant paw holds his iPod, the other holds his phone, each at the ready. In case. His mouth is open, like he'd been stunned by a bright light.
I'd assumed they were a couple, but as the bus trundles out of downtown and up Haight, I see they never once look at each other. I wonder if they know each other at all, if maybe, complete strangers on the bus, they are feeling the bare contact of thigh against thigh while looking away, denying the flirtation, their bodies exchanging lustful heat entirely against their will.
I look up at Mr. Billy, but when I look back, her head is on his shoulder. A couple, then. Still no words, no change in his expression or hers.
The bus is nearly empty, a lighted capsule in the speeding dark. We've passed the Masonic and Haight stop, where most of the passengers heave themselves from their seats and out to the street; our couple remains.
She's lifted her head from his shoulder and is looking out the window again. Not once have their eyes met, not once has one even tried to look at the other.
Suddenly she gets up from her seat, skirts neatly around the man's long legs, and is waiting near the door, her deep eyelids lowered as she gazes coolly at the floor.
He stays as he is, stunned face, devices held out in front of him like the reins of a horse, until the bus stops, and he's up and out on the sidewalk beside her, the bus rolling on; I'm unable to catch more than a glimmer of her legs beneath her pencil skirt in the dark, and then they're gone.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Divine nonchalance
I hadn't realized just how many dangers lurked on my morning walk to work, until I started to read the signs along the way...
Monday, December 15, 2008
Hallelujah
Night starts too early and lasts deep into morning, waking up dull and heavy, the dark weighing on my chest. I want to burrow under the covers like my cat, nose first into warmth, the fingers of dreams lacing in and through my waking mind.
I stand in the kitchen staring at an empty pan and wonder at its meaning.
I have an appointment downtown, the city desperately decked in holiday cheer and screaming SALE SALE, bell-ringing Salvationeers and brass bands and shopping bags knocking against knees, shoppers looking nonplussed to find only one bag in hand, last year it was twenty, but even Santa's cinching the belt another notch.
I'm cranky and late and hungry, no time to dodge my way through the crowds to the library, just hope for a train soon and home to lunch.
Down in the Powell Street station a stringy guy in reindeer antlers sings "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" with his guitar case open and he's good, the song pulls at me, but I have a train to catch and deeper in the station now another busker, this one a girl.
She looks unlikely, all pudge and colorless hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the station, guitar in her lap, but I get closer and now I can hear her voice, breaking free of the station and soaring up above the street, people are standing where they are to listen. She's singing "Hallelujah" and that's it, that's almost all I can take. I'm going to break into tears right here in the station. She finishes the song and I dig around in my purse to find all the quarters I can to drop in her case. Someone else is whispering his awe to her and she just says thanks and turns the page in her music.
A night later and already it's full dark at five. I'm in a coffee shop before strolling to a party, enough time to work on rewrites and I hear the familiar opening, it's John Cale's version, Hallelujah, and this time I think, yeah. Maybe the universe is speaking. We're on the edge of solstice, the earth turns and - miraculously - the weight shifts. Sun begins to rise a little earlier and hang in the sky a little longer.
Just hold on another week and watch. Hallelujah.
Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Baby, I've been here before.
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
But love is not a victory march,
No it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below,
Ah but now you never show it to me, do you?
Remember, yeah when I moved in you,
And the holy dove was moving too,
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Maybe there's a God above,
All I ever learned from love
Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
But it's not a cry that you hear at night,
It's not somebody who's seen the light
No it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn't much.
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch.
I've told the truth, I didn't come all this way to fool you.
Yeah even though it all went wrong
I'll stand right here before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my lips but Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
I stand in the kitchen staring at an empty pan and wonder at its meaning.
I have an appointment downtown, the city desperately decked in holiday cheer and screaming SALE SALE, bell-ringing Salvationeers and brass bands and shopping bags knocking against knees, shoppers looking nonplussed to find only one bag in hand, last year it was twenty, but even Santa's cinching the belt another notch.
I'm cranky and late and hungry, no time to dodge my way through the crowds to the library, just hope for a train soon and home to lunch.
Down in the Powell Street station a stringy guy in reindeer antlers sings "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" with his guitar case open and he's good, the song pulls at me, but I have a train to catch and deeper in the station now another busker, this one a girl.
She looks unlikely, all pudge and colorless hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the station, guitar in her lap, but I get closer and now I can hear her voice, breaking free of the station and soaring up above the street, people are standing where they are to listen. She's singing "Hallelujah" and that's it, that's almost all I can take. I'm going to break into tears right here in the station. She finishes the song and I dig around in my purse to find all the quarters I can to drop in her case. Someone else is whispering his awe to her and she just says thanks and turns the page in her music.
A night later and already it's full dark at five. I'm in a coffee shop before strolling to a party, enough time to work on rewrites and I hear the familiar opening, it's John Cale's version, Hallelujah, and this time I think, yeah. Maybe the universe is speaking. We're on the edge of solstice, the earth turns and - miraculously - the weight shifts. Sun begins to rise a little earlier and hang in the sky a little longer.
Just hold on another week and watch. Hallelujah.
Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Baby, I've been here before.
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
But love is not a victory march,
No it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below,
Ah but now you never show it to me, do you?
Remember, yeah when I moved in you,
And the holy dove was moving too,
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Maybe there's a God above,
All I ever learned from love
Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
But it's not a cry that you hear at night,
It's not somebody who's seen the light
No it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn't much.
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch.
I've told the truth, I didn't come all this way to fool you.
Yeah even though it all went wrong
I'll stand right here before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my lips but Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
You gotta get in where you fit in
To get to the main branch of the library from my doctor's office, I walk through the Tenderloin.
Past the legit theaters on Geary ('Tis a Pity She's a Whore, A Chorus Line, a one-man show about Shakespeare), then left on Hyde. It's morning still. A man walking toward me has a vivid bruise over his right eye, staining eyelid, brow, and all the way up to the top of his bald head. His toothless cheeks suck in against his gums.
Someone whistles behind me. I don't turn. They whistle again, and a skinny white guy at the next corner turns to grin past me. He raises a chin. A voice from behind me asks how his night went. The man across the street chuckles. The light changes, and I cross toward him, seeing the net of scars across his cheek and jaw. His hair stands out in tufts.
"You find your pot, huh?" the voice behind me calls.
He nods vaguely, grinning, and waves them off, crossing against the light. He heads toward the mini-park, a tiny green space tucked in among the buildings.
Ahead of me is a woman with bright blond hair hanging to her shoulders. She wears shining burgundy lycra tights under a tiny black miniskirt. A blue and green scarf is tied around one ankle, and she wobbles slightly in her green heels. I look for her face as we pass storefront windows, but all I can see are her big Jackie-O sunglasses.
At the library, volunteers are unloading books onto tables out front: "Linux for Dummies" and "Europe on $5 a Day." Passers-by gaze at the books, and the volunteers work silently.
On the front door is a notice - the library is closed until noon. It's a long time until noon.
I walk toward the Muni stop, disappointed. A man sitting on the library's low stone wall catches my eye. He looks big and healthy, and he smiles widely at me. He wears a knit cap with bright orange flames that stand out against his blue-black skin. It looks like a graphic representation of his thoughts.
"You gotta get in where you fit in," he says to me. "If you don't, that's it!"
I smile back at him and nod. The sun shines out from behind a cloud, and I head for my train.
Past the legit theaters on Geary ('Tis a Pity She's a Whore, A Chorus Line, a one-man show about Shakespeare), then left on Hyde. It's morning still. A man walking toward me has a vivid bruise over his right eye, staining eyelid, brow, and all the way up to the top of his bald head. His toothless cheeks suck in against his gums.
Someone whistles behind me. I don't turn. They whistle again, and a skinny white guy at the next corner turns to grin past me. He raises a chin. A voice from behind me asks how his night went. The man across the street chuckles. The light changes, and I cross toward him, seeing the net of scars across his cheek and jaw. His hair stands out in tufts.
"You find your pot, huh?" the voice behind me calls.
He nods vaguely, grinning, and waves them off, crossing against the light. He heads toward the mini-park, a tiny green space tucked in among the buildings.
Ahead of me is a woman with bright blond hair hanging to her shoulders. She wears shining burgundy lycra tights under a tiny black miniskirt. A blue and green scarf is tied around one ankle, and she wobbles slightly in her green heels. I look for her face as we pass storefront windows, but all I can see are her big Jackie-O sunglasses.
At the library, volunteers are unloading books onto tables out front: "Linux for Dummies" and "Europe on $5 a Day." Passers-by gaze at the books, and the volunteers work silently.
On the front door is a notice - the library is closed until noon. It's a long time until noon.
I walk toward the Muni stop, disappointed. A man sitting on the library's low stone wall catches my eye. He looks big and healthy, and he smiles widely at me. He wears a knit cap with bright orange flames that stand out against his blue-black skin. It looks like a graphic representation of his thoughts.
"You gotta get in where you fit in," he says to me. "If you don't, that's it!"
I smile back at him and nod. The sun shines out from behind a cloud, and I head for my train.
Friday, May 09, 2008
ping ping
Today I rode the train downtown. Morning train commuters are more self-contained than bus commuters. It's quiet, everyone in his own bubble. I stand all the way downtown.
It's a different crowd on the way back. Almost noon. A tall, thin woman sits beside me with her daughter. She is pregnant, but long and slender above and below her tidy, rounded belly. Clear-skinned, high cheekbones.
"I bet there won't be any kids there," the girl bumps her toes against the seat in front of her. Embroidery sparkles at the bottoms of her leggings.
"I bet there'll be a lot," says mom.
"I bet none," daughter sneaking a smile up at mom.
"I bet a lot! Look look, do you recognize it? There's the park."
They get off, whispering together, and mom's seat is taken by a stringy man in a beard. His jeans hang loose from his thighs.
He might be homeless, but I don't know for sure.
I look up at the next stop to see a transit cop standing at the front of the car.
"I need everybody to show me proof of payment. Ticket stub, fast pass."
She seems to have materialized in place. Full transit cop gear. Jacket, badge, heavy things strung from her belt.
The stringy man beside me bolts for the door, crossing directly in front of the transit cop. It's too late. The doors are closed, and he pings back and forth in the stairwell, pushing the door releases, palms open against the doors.
"You won't get out that way, sir," the transit cop says to him, softly. She doesn't want to bust a homeless man.
He's trapped, and he knows it. He buzzes past her again, toward the back of the car. She watches after him, then lifts a chin at the passenger closest to her. He shows his fast pass.
I lift out my pass, looking over my shoulder toward the back of the car. What can they do to a homeless guy? Normally it's a fine, but if someone doesn't have ID, doesn't have an address? It's not like she can arrest him, can she?
I can't see the stringy man, but I can hear him bumping up against each door of the car like a pinball. I imagine him fretting to the end of the car, pinned against the back door, heart thrumming in his chest.
It's a different crowd on the way back. Almost noon. A tall, thin woman sits beside me with her daughter. She is pregnant, but long and slender above and below her tidy, rounded belly. Clear-skinned, high cheekbones.
"I bet there won't be any kids there," the girl bumps her toes against the seat in front of her. Embroidery sparkles at the bottoms of her leggings.
"I bet there'll be a lot," says mom.
"I bet none," daughter sneaking a smile up at mom.
"I bet a lot! Look look, do you recognize it? There's the park."
They get off, whispering together, and mom's seat is taken by a stringy man in a beard. His jeans hang loose from his thighs.
He might be homeless, but I don't know for sure.
I look up at the next stop to see a transit cop standing at the front of the car.
"I need everybody to show me proof of payment. Ticket stub, fast pass."
She seems to have materialized in place. Full transit cop gear. Jacket, badge, heavy things strung from her belt.
The stringy man beside me bolts for the door, crossing directly in front of the transit cop. It's too late. The doors are closed, and he pings back and forth in the stairwell, pushing the door releases, palms open against the doors.
"You won't get out that way, sir," the transit cop says to him, softly. She doesn't want to bust a homeless man.
He's trapped, and he knows it. He buzzes past her again, toward the back of the car. She watches after him, then lifts a chin at the passenger closest to her. He shows his fast pass.
I lift out my pass, looking over my shoulder toward the back of the car. What can they do to a homeless guy? Normally it's a fine, but if someone doesn't have ID, doesn't have an address? It's not like she can arrest him, can she?
I can't see the stringy man, but I can hear him bumping up against each door of the car like a pinball. I imagine him fretting to the end of the car, pinned against the back door, heart thrumming in his chest.
Friday, February 29, 2008
I, who am your friend, will help you
The man sitting beside me on this morning's bus holds a small notepad; it fits in the palm of his hand. I glance away from my book to read what's written: English phrases, followed by Asian characters.
"Yes, I should like to come over."
"What time would suit you for my coming?"
The English is beautiful and formal, strangely contorted into correctness. Me and my dangling participles feel loose and jangly beside him.
The man looks like a character from a Kurosawa movie. Long, lined face. The honest farmer whose family has been brutalized. The salaryman who yearns for the forbidden. I peek to see more of the useful phrases he is learning.
"Do not bother yourself," his notepad reassures, "I, who am your friend, will help you."
This fills me with warmth, and gratitude. If he were my friend, and I was in need, I am sure he would help.
"Yes, I should like to come over."
"What time would suit you for my coming?"
The English is beautiful and formal, strangely contorted into correctness. Me and my dangling participles feel loose and jangly beside him.
The man looks like a character from a Kurosawa movie. Long, lined face. The honest farmer whose family has been brutalized. The salaryman who yearns for the forbidden. I peek to see more of the useful phrases he is learning.
"Do not bother yourself," his notepad reassures, "I, who am your friend, will help you."
This fills me with warmth, and gratitude. If he were my friend, and I was in need, I am sure he would help.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A short yarn
I want to be hibernating. This is the time of year to hibernate. Yes, I live in California, but the northern bit of it. It gets dark before five p.m. That means hibernation.
But, no such luck. I must muster out of bed in the dark of the a.m. and make my way to work, then home again home again in the deep dark of a winter's eve. Normally, the bus commute is reading time. But when it's dark outside, my stomach lurches by the second block, and by the third I'm reaching for the bell, sweat pouring down my face and hands a-tremble.
So reading's out.
Somehow, though, knitting is fine. I can look up often enough to see where we're going, no sweats, no trembling, no dry heaves into the lap of my neighbor.
Tonight I pull my knitting from my bag as soon as I'm seated. I'm practiced at this by now, removing the stoppers from my needles, checking my pattern to see where I am, I settle the whole works in my lap, when I see my yarn isn't where it should be.
The red ball of yarn has escaped from my bag, and now it rolls quietly down the aisle of the bus.
The bus is in motion, my hands are full, the ball rolls, playing out the line that leads all the way back to my needles. I'm sitting near the back, and all I can do is watch its progress. It rolls neatly ahead, then dips to the side as the bus turns, then out again into the aisle, passengers one by one taking note as it passes, it's pointless to chase it down while we're moving: the yarn is nimble and light, I am an ox carrying panniers of water.
It rolls all the way to the front, at last coming to rest against a passenger's foot. It nudges at her instep like a kitten, but she doesn't see, doesn't feel its soft insistence until I rustle, lumber, clank to retrieve my prodigal yarn.
I murmur a sorry as I brush against her shoe to pick up my rebellious red ball, then scurry back to my place.
No - I correct myself: I murmur a sorry, barely holding in the guffaws that inflate my cheeks. I'm laughing, all the way, I'm delighted, and as I pass, the other passengers look up and into my eyes and share the joke.
I resume my seat, the whole bus shaking with silent laughter, those invisible walls between stranger and stranger dissolved for a moment, and I'm glad, finally, that I emerged from my cave today.
But, no such luck. I must muster out of bed in the dark of the a.m. and make my way to work, then home again home again in the deep dark of a winter's eve. Normally, the bus commute is reading time. But when it's dark outside, my stomach lurches by the second block, and by the third I'm reaching for the bell, sweat pouring down my face and hands a-tremble.
So reading's out.
Somehow, though, knitting is fine. I can look up often enough to see where we're going, no sweats, no trembling, no dry heaves into the lap of my neighbor.
Tonight I pull my knitting from my bag as soon as I'm seated. I'm practiced at this by now, removing the stoppers from my needles, checking my pattern to see where I am, I settle the whole works in my lap, when I see my yarn isn't where it should be.
The red ball of yarn has escaped from my bag, and now it rolls quietly down the aisle of the bus.
The bus is in motion, my hands are full, the ball rolls, playing out the line that leads all the way back to my needles. I'm sitting near the back, and all I can do is watch its progress. It rolls neatly ahead, then dips to the side as the bus turns, then out again into the aisle, passengers one by one taking note as it passes, it's pointless to chase it down while we're moving: the yarn is nimble and light, I am an ox carrying panniers of water.
It rolls all the way to the front, at last coming to rest against a passenger's foot. It nudges at her instep like a kitten, but she doesn't see, doesn't feel its soft insistence until I rustle, lumber, clank to retrieve my prodigal yarn.
I murmur a sorry as I brush against her shoe to pick up my rebellious red ball, then scurry back to my place.
No - I correct myself: I murmur a sorry, barely holding in the guffaws that inflate my cheeks. I'm laughing, all the way, I'm delighted, and as I pass, the other passengers look up and into my eyes and share the joke.
I resume my seat, the whole bus shaking with silent laughter, those invisible walls between stranger and stranger dissolved for a moment, and I'm glad, finally, that I emerged from my cave today.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Do I know you
He's just across the street from me as I'm waiting for the bus. He's focused intently on something in the gutter. He reaches both hands for it, carefully, stooping down, he scoops at empty air, gently gently handling nothing, bringing nothing close to his chest, cradling nothing tenderly, he steps around in a circle, letting nothing go, he begins all over again.
I can't take my eyes off him. What does he see? What is he holding with such delicacy? His hair hangs down over his face, I can't read his expression, but he performs these actions over and over, with variations: now he is cradling with both hands, now one hand holds while the other supports - what - a baby's head? Is he rescuing babies in the street? Or kittens?
Or something else, something of inestimable value? Something I can't - with all my busy-ness - begin to imagine?
He shakes his hair back, and I see his face for a few seconds. He smiles at whatever he holds. He looks like Viggo Mortensen, dirty face, long hair, beard. But his beard is trimmed. He wears a clean corduroy jacket - if slightly worn at the elbows - clean khakis. As he steps around in his turn, I see a wallet in his back pocket.
Who was he, before his doors of perception were thrown open, when he could tell the difference between the world Out There and the world In Here?
My bus comes, and I get on. It's time for me to be back at work, but I turn in my seat and watch him as we pull away. Do I know you?, I think. Do I know you?
I can't take my eyes off him. What does he see? What is he holding with such delicacy? His hair hangs down over his face, I can't read his expression, but he performs these actions over and over, with variations: now he is cradling with both hands, now one hand holds while the other supports - what - a baby's head? Is he rescuing babies in the street? Or kittens?
Or something else, something of inestimable value? Something I can't - with all my busy-ness - begin to imagine?
He shakes his hair back, and I see his face for a few seconds. He smiles at whatever he holds. He looks like Viggo Mortensen, dirty face, long hair, beard. But his beard is trimmed. He wears a clean corduroy jacket - if slightly worn at the elbows - clean khakis. As he steps around in his turn, I see a wallet in his back pocket.
Who was he, before his doors of perception were thrown open, when he could tell the difference between the world Out There and the world In Here?
My bus comes, and I get on. It's time for me to be back at work, but I turn in my seat and watch him as we pull away. Do I know you?, I think. Do I know you?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Burned-out husk
Post-rush-hour crowd on the bus as I ride to a doctor's appointment. An Asian man in a toupee sits across from me, Ken-doll swoop to his bangs. He holds his mouth pursed as though keeping in a mouthful of vomit. Or pearls.
I'm knitting, listening to the women behind me.
Mature Woman #1: Di-vis-a-der-o.
Mature Woman #2: That's a major street, there.
MW #1: So she asked me, are you carrying flame retardant with you when you drive? I mean, the car was just a burned-out husk, sitting in the driveway.
MW #3: Tsk.
No, it isn't quite a tsk. It's a sound I recognize, I've heard it before. Kind of a tsschp.
MW #1: Boat's completely gone. It was an old wooden boat, in the driveway. Nothing left. SUV's a burned-out husk.
MW #3: Tsschp.
Now I recognize the sound. My grandfather used to make that sound when he was sucking on his dentures, slurping the loose dentures back up against his gums.
MW #1: The firemen had to yell at Bob to stop, he was spraying down my car with the garden hose when they got there. Get away from there, they said, it could explode.
I'm eight years old again, listening to Gramps play guitar, jazzed up with a wah-wah pedal my uncle designed, and Gramps' own flourishes.
MW #1: You know, my little car didn't get any better mileage than that SUV.
MW #2: What'd it get?
MW #1: (mumbling) 16
MW #3: Tsschp.
Gramps played a fancy guitar, singing and playing and sucking up his dentures. Natty in his dark suit and string tie.
MW #2: Your car's not so little.
MW #1: It is. Not full-size.
My stop already. As I step down to the doors, I look back at the women. They each have a variation of the practical Mature Woman haircut. One gray, one blond, one brunette.
They wear matching, red-white-and-blue American flag windbreakers. The brunette shakes her map of San Francisco open for the other two to see.
I'm knitting, listening to the women behind me.
Mature Woman #1: Di-vis-a-der-o.
Mature Woman #2: That's a major street, there.
MW #1: So she asked me, are you carrying flame retardant with you when you drive? I mean, the car was just a burned-out husk, sitting in the driveway.
MW #3: Tsk.
No, it isn't quite a tsk. It's a sound I recognize, I've heard it before. Kind of a tsschp.
MW #1: Boat's completely gone. It was an old wooden boat, in the driveway. Nothing left. SUV's a burned-out husk.
MW #3: Tsschp.
Now I recognize the sound. My grandfather used to make that sound when he was sucking on his dentures, slurping the loose dentures back up against his gums.
MW #1: The firemen had to yell at Bob to stop, he was spraying down my car with the garden hose when they got there. Get away from there, they said, it could explode.
I'm eight years old again, listening to Gramps play guitar, jazzed up with a wah-wah pedal my uncle designed, and Gramps' own flourishes.
MW #1: You know, my little car didn't get any better mileage than that SUV.
MW #2: What'd it get?
MW #1: (mumbling) 16
MW #3: Tsschp.
Gramps played a fancy guitar, singing and playing and sucking up his dentures. Natty in his dark suit and string tie.
MW #2: Your car's not so little.
MW #1: It is. Not full-size.
My stop already. As I step down to the doors, I look back at the women. They each have a variation of the practical Mature Woman haircut. One gray, one blond, one brunette.
They wear matching, red-white-and-blue American flag windbreakers. The brunette shakes her map of San Francisco open for the other two to see.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Butterfly
I share the bus with him most mornings. Had him pegged as a post-hippie: skinny, jeans-wearing ponytailed sort.
But on Friday, he climbed onto the bus, head ducking shyly. His hair was loose, brushed softly to his shoulders. His jeans, I noticed, were designer, fitting just so to his hips. A scarf ran through the belt loops. Hand lifting delicately to his sunglasses (glamorous Jackie O), I saw his fingernails shone, freshly manicured.
He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes flicking from person to person around the bus. I smiled at him; he returned the smile, looking demurely down, mascaraed lashes casting shadows on his pinking cheeks.
But on Friday, he climbed onto the bus, head ducking shyly. His hair was loose, brushed softly to his shoulders. His jeans, I noticed, were designer, fitting just so to his hips. A scarf ran through the belt loops. Hand lifting delicately to his sunglasses (glamorous Jackie O), I saw his fingernails shone, freshly manicured.
He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes flicking from person to person around the bus. I smiled at him; he returned the smile, looking demurely down, mascaraed lashes casting shadows on his pinking cheeks.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I love the #22
Reasonably, my colleagues view the #22 bus with suspicion. It is noisy, crowded, smelly. Its route is through some of the worst sections of town.
But I love the #22.
I've ridden it in the middle of the workday when I'm leaving the office early, sick. When the riders are the gray-faced strung out; the bemused elderly; the leftover hippies, eyes following invisible spirits, hallucinatory bubbles as they rise toward the ceiling.
Early afternoon, and I'm elbowed by school kids shouting lusty from one end to the other, teeth sparking white in their greed to bite off chunks of life whole, to show us old folks their strength, their primacy. Weary-eyed teachers quiet near the front, an authoritative look from one momentarily lulls the kids.
But in the evening, oh, what a grand parade. In just a few blocks, on just one evening, I am treated to:
One cop near the front of the bus, bald as a lightbulb, talking with an elderly woman. I think she is Eastern European, possibly Baltic.
Two emaciated women, holding each other up. One white, one black. I cannot tell how old they are. They could be in their twenties or their forties, but the years have worked on them like the jaws of an animal. The white woman wears skinny jeans that nonetheless sag, fuscia thong showing above; the black woman a red leather skirt that outlines her curveless ass. Their eyes roll vaguely; I don't think they even see the cop as they sit directly across from him.
One Asian man in glasses, tall and slender as an alien, neatly dressed in buttery tweed. Matching vest buttoned top to bottom, soft gray tie like a pigeon's breast, pearl tie pin dimpling the perfect center.
At the third stop, a giant black man, head brushing the ceiling. Barbie-doll pink silk suit. Pink wingtips. Pink fedora. Pink cane. Full-length fur coat. He smiles, boarding the bus, the bald cop watching him pass, gold teeth winking.
Two lushly built black women sit together. The larger woman's jeans are laced up the side with ribbon; flawless brown flesh shining out between the laces. Over one bubbling breast is tattooed "PRINCESS". I can't read her other tattoos. The two of them are trying to offer a seat to an elderly Filipina, who shakes her bobbed hair merrily, "No, no, I'm okay." A passenger gets off, leaving the seat beside Princess empty, and the Filipina sits at last. Her eyes widen as she takes in Princess' body art.
"Oh," she says, delicately touching one tiny finger to Princess' shoulder, "You have pictures?"
"Tattoos."
"Oooooh," says Filipina, her eyes worried as she looks up at Princess, "It not hurt?"
Princess laughs. "Yeah, it hurt - but it's okay now."
I love the #22.
But I love the #22.
I've ridden it in the middle of the workday when I'm leaving the office early, sick. When the riders are the gray-faced strung out; the bemused elderly; the leftover hippies, eyes following invisible spirits, hallucinatory bubbles as they rise toward the ceiling.
Early afternoon, and I'm elbowed by school kids shouting lusty from one end to the other, teeth sparking white in their greed to bite off chunks of life whole, to show us old folks their strength, their primacy. Weary-eyed teachers quiet near the front, an authoritative look from one momentarily lulls the kids.
But in the evening, oh, what a grand parade. In just a few blocks, on just one evening, I am treated to:
One cop near the front of the bus, bald as a lightbulb, talking with an elderly woman. I think she is Eastern European, possibly Baltic.
Two emaciated women, holding each other up. One white, one black. I cannot tell how old they are. They could be in their twenties or their forties, but the years have worked on them like the jaws of an animal. The white woman wears skinny jeans that nonetheless sag, fuscia thong showing above; the black woman a red leather skirt that outlines her curveless ass. Their eyes roll vaguely; I don't think they even see the cop as they sit directly across from him.
One Asian man in glasses, tall and slender as an alien, neatly dressed in buttery tweed. Matching vest buttoned top to bottom, soft gray tie like a pigeon's breast, pearl tie pin dimpling the perfect center.
At the third stop, a giant black man, head brushing the ceiling. Barbie-doll pink silk suit. Pink wingtips. Pink fedora. Pink cane. Full-length fur coat. He smiles, boarding the bus, the bald cop watching him pass, gold teeth winking.
Two lushly built black women sit together. The larger woman's jeans are laced up the side with ribbon; flawless brown flesh shining out between the laces. Over one bubbling breast is tattooed "PRINCESS". I can't read her other tattoos. The two of them are trying to offer a seat to an elderly Filipina, who shakes her bobbed hair merrily, "No, no, I'm okay." A passenger gets off, leaving the seat beside Princess empty, and the Filipina sits at last. Her eyes widen as she takes in Princess' body art.
"Oh," she says, delicately touching one tiny finger to Princess' shoulder, "You have pictures?"
"Tattoos."
"Oooooh," says Filipina, her eyes worried as she looks up at Princess, "It not hurt?"
Princess laughs. "Yeah, it hurt - but it's okay now."
I love the #22.
Friday, March 23, 2007
It could be Tom Waits
Blogger apologies: my old laptop went tits-up again, so I am far behind in my posting and in reading yours. It's not because I don't love you, whatever those other bloggers might say.
Mr. Billy and I are snug into bed; it's already well past my bedtime, and I'm reeling from a beer and two glasses of wine downed at a friend's book party at City Lights (yes, I'm a cheap date).
My head settles in to sleep, street sounds drifting in through the window. There's a party going down in the neighborhood, but I'm working it into my dreams, people laughing and talking, cars passing by, it's all good, already looping dreamishly, but then someone brings out a guitar.
I groan. "Someone out there with a guitar and a mouth," I say to Mr. Billy. He's still awake, I can tell from the quiet breaths, controlled shifting under the covers.
We turn over, in opposite directions, burrowing into the pillows. The song follows, stealing into my consciousness.
"Hey," I lift my head, "I know that song. It's the Heart of Saturday Night."
"Hunh?" Maybe Mr. Billy wasn't as wakeful as I'd thought.
"Tom Waits song." It was that Waitsian couplet that tipped me off, Tell me is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin?/Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin, I'm listening now for the next stanza.
"Maybe it is Tom Waits."
I start to laugh, but stop right away. It's plausible. Tom Waits used to live in this neighborhood. His favorite café is just down the street.
I'm sitting up in bed now, straining to hear. It doesn't really sound like him, but sound distorts traveling across a street, through window glass. It could be Tom Waits. I get up and put on my glasses, moving from window to window. The party's in the house that's obscured by a blossoming tree. I can't tell.
Mr. Billy's up now, too. He's opening the kitchen window and putting his head out. I'm out on the back lanai.
"It's a woman singing now."
We get back into bed.
"It could have been him."
We turn over, in opposite directions, punching at the pillows. We're quiet for a moment.
"What if it is him?" I say, then close my mouth. We should go to sleep.
They're singing up a storm at that party.
Mr. Billy gets up, and starts getting dressed.
"I'll call you if it's him," he says, heading out the door. I love Mr. Billy.
He's back in ten minutes.
"Nothing?"
"A bunch of hippies. And a cellist."
Maybe it's the Kronos Quartet, I think. They live in this neighborhood.
I don't say anything.
Mr. Billy and I are snug into bed; it's already well past my bedtime, and I'm reeling from a beer and two glasses of wine downed at a friend's book party at City Lights (yes, I'm a cheap date).
My head settles in to sleep, street sounds drifting in through the window. There's a party going down in the neighborhood, but I'm working it into my dreams, people laughing and talking, cars passing by, it's all good, already looping dreamishly, but then someone brings out a guitar.
I groan. "Someone out there with a guitar and a mouth," I say to Mr. Billy. He's still awake, I can tell from the quiet breaths, controlled shifting under the covers.
We turn over, in opposite directions, burrowing into the pillows. The song follows, stealing into my consciousness.
"Hey," I lift my head, "I know that song. It's the Heart of Saturday Night."
"Hunh?" Maybe Mr. Billy wasn't as wakeful as I'd thought.
"Tom Waits song." It was that Waitsian couplet that tipped me off, Tell me is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin?/Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin, I'm listening now for the next stanza.
"Maybe it is Tom Waits."
I start to laugh, but stop right away. It's plausible. Tom Waits used to live in this neighborhood. His favorite café is just down the street.
I'm sitting up in bed now, straining to hear. It doesn't really sound like him, but sound distorts traveling across a street, through window glass. It could be Tom Waits. I get up and put on my glasses, moving from window to window. The party's in the house that's obscured by a blossoming tree. I can't tell.
Mr. Billy's up now, too. He's opening the kitchen window and putting his head out. I'm out on the back lanai.
"It's a woman singing now."
We get back into bed.
"It could have been him."
We turn over, in opposite directions, punching at the pillows. We're quiet for a moment.
"What if it is him?" I say, then close my mouth. We should go to sleep.
They're singing up a storm at that party.
Mr. Billy gets up, and starts getting dressed.
"I'll call you if it's him," he says, heading out the door. I love Mr. Billy.
He's back in ten minutes.
"Nothing?"
"A bunch of hippies. And a cellist."
Maybe it's the Kronos Quartet, I think. They live in this neighborhood.
I don't say anything.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Not a fire this time
I'm sautéeing vegetables for dinner, standing in the kitchen, Mr. Billy & I talking - about what is lost now, but Mr. Billy was mid-sentence - when a heavy metal scrape and crunch break in from outside. It's just a step to the window, and I see a black SUV. The driver's standing so hard on the gas it leans forward on its shocks, the wheels' friction holding it back a fraction of a second before letting go with a long screech, and it disappears down the street.
I don't see the other vehicle at first; it's a white mini-van up on the curb, less than four feet from the corner of our building. Mr. Billy slides open the window.
"Are you okay?" he calls.
Already neighbors are gathering. I'm ready to call the cops, but I see a cell phone flip open down there on the street.
"My cousin was killed by a hit and run," I say. It's the first thing that pops into my head.
Mr. Billy's already on his way down the stairs. I stay long enough to make sure the stove is off, and follow him out into the spitting rain.
The driver of the white mini-van is hysterical, her mouth wide open, wailing behind the steering wheel. Her door is open, and she has one foot out on the runner board. She doesn't appear to be hurt.
Several people are standing around, leaning into the car to talk to her, lighting up cigarettes, talking. One of them is talking to Mr. Billy, looking familiar.
"Hey, look who lives here," says Mr. Billy.
It's N., an old acquaintance of ours; he moved into the house across the street six months ago and we didn't know until just now. He hugs me and we laugh. I look over at the hysterical woman and my laughter tails off. She isn't slowing down, waves and waves of loud sobs, mouth stretched wide like a jack o'lantern.
"You got the license?" Mr. Billy is saying, and I'm impressed, someone managed to get the plate number that fast, but that isn't it. One of the neighbors is holding something in his hand.
Not the number, the actual license plate.
"Yeah," he says, laughing, "it broke off when he hit her. I saw it land in the street."
"Fuck YEAH," says someone else.
I imagine the driver's sick feeling when he realizes his plate's gone. It feels good. I have revenge in mind right now, crowing at his stupidity, oh, he'll get his tonight.
The hysterical woman is still howling. I lean in, ask her if she wants to come inside where it's warm, but she shakes her head, still sobbing, thrashing at the tears with her fists. She doesn't seem to speak much English.
"I tried to speak Chinese with her," says N., "but I think she only speaks Cantonese."
The hysterical woman's phone starts to chime. She opens it, holds it to her head, howls into it. Finally the howls turn into words, but she hasn't calmed down. She closes the phone and settles back into her sobs, rocking slightly in her seat.
"She lives right up the street," says a woman. She and the man with her live a few blocks away; they were driving home when they saw the accident, and they tried to chase the black SUV, but it pulled away too quickly.
Everyone goes quiet, and we look at the driver of the white mini-van.
"She's hysterical."
"Maybe we should call back, get an ambulance here."
"An ambulance will come anyway, won't it?"
"No, she said she didn't want an ambulance."
"I'm calling."
I introduce myself to the couple who tried to chase the SUV. We shake hands. We look at the mini-van driver. I crouch down next to her. I'm trying to figure out how to ask her if she needs anything, a blanket, a drink of water. She shakes her head, rocking, crying.
"How long before the cops get here, do you think?"
"Man, is she okay?"
"She's, it's the shock, you know? It's a shock."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Finally, a police cruiser rolls quietly toward us.
"Police," I say to the woman, pointing.
"Thank you," she says, then opens her mouth to howl some more.
The cop speaks Cantonese. Another car pulls up. We tell what we saw, what we heard. They run the plate. None of us saw the driver of the other car, none of us can describe him. Or her. I tell one of the cops where to find us if they need anything else, and we go inside where it's warm and dry.
I'm finishing dinner, and Mr. Billy looks out the window.
"Her husband's there," he says, "they're hugging."
I don't see the other vehicle at first; it's a white mini-van up on the curb, less than four feet from the corner of our building. Mr. Billy slides open the window.
"Are you okay?" he calls.
Already neighbors are gathering. I'm ready to call the cops, but I see a cell phone flip open down there on the street.
"My cousin was killed by a hit and run," I say. It's the first thing that pops into my head.
Mr. Billy's already on his way down the stairs. I stay long enough to make sure the stove is off, and follow him out into the spitting rain.
The driver of the white mini-van is hysterical, her mouth wide open, wailing behind the steering wheel. Her door is open, and she has one foot out on the runner board. She doesn't appear to be hurt.
Several people are standing around, leaning into the car to talk to her, lighting up cigarettes, talking. One of them is talking to Mr. Billy, looking familiar.
"Hey, look who lives here," says Mr. Billy.
It's N., an old acquaintance of ours; he moved into the house across the street six months ago and we didn't know until just now. He hugs me and we laugh. I look over at the hysterical woman and my laughter tails off. She isn't slowing down, waves and waves of loud sobs, mouth stretched wide like a jack o'lantern.
"You got the license?" Mr. Billy is saying, and I'm impressed, someone managed to get the plate number that fast, but that isn't it. One of the neighbors is holding something in his hand.
Not the number, the actual license plate.
"Yeah," he says, laughing, "it broke off when he hit her. I saw it land in the street."
"Fuck YEAH," says someone else.
I imagine the driver's sick feeling when he realizes his plate's gone. It feels good. I have revenge in mind right now, crowing at his stupidity, oh, he'll get his tonight.
The hysterical woman is still howling. I lean in, ask her if she wants to come inside where it's warm, but she shakes her head, still sobbing, thrashing at the tears with her fists. She doesn't seem to speak much English.
"I tried to speak Chinese with her," says N., "but I think she only speaks Cantonese."
The hysterical woman's phone starts to chime. She opens it, holds it to her head, howls into it. Finally the howls turn into words, but she hasn't calmed down. She closes the phone and settles back into her sobs, rocking slightly in her seat.
"She lives right up the street," says a woman. She and the man with her live a few blocks away; they were driving home when they saw the accident, and they tried to chase the black SUV, but it pulled away too quickly.
Everyone goes quiet, and we look at the driver of the white mini-van.
"She's hysterical."
"Maybe we should call back, get an ambulance here."
"An ambulance will come anyway, won't it?"
"No, she said she didn't want an ambulance."
"I'm calling."
I introduce myself to the couple who tried to chase the SUV. We shake hands. We look at the mini-van driver. I crouch down next to her. I'm trying to figure out how to ask her if she needs anything, a blanket, a drink of water. She shakes her head, rocking, crying.
"How long before the cops get here, do you think?"
"Man, is she okay?"
"She's, it's the shock, you know? It's a shock."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Finally, a police cruiser rolls quietly toward us.
"Police," I say to the woman, pointing.
"Thank you," she says, then opens her mouth to howl some more.
The cop speaks Cantonese. Another car pulls up. We tell what we saw, what we heard. They run the plate. None of us saw the driver of the other car, none of us can describe him. Or her. I tell one of the cops where to find us if they need anything else, and we go inside where it's warm and dry.
I'm finishing dinner, and Mr. Billy looks out the window.
"Her husband's there," he says, "they're hugging."
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Anosomia
A flu took my sense of smell. Not in the usual way - my nose wasn't stuffed up, I could breathe through it just fine - I just couldn't smell. Not anything. I pushed my nose right up to the pan as I sauteéd garlic. No dice.
Of course food didn't taste right. And I couldn't tell whether the litter box needed changing, or if that shirt was good for another wearing or should go in the laundry.
But, something else changed.
On the morning bus, I see a passenger I often share the evening ride with, the man with the tribal jewelry, black ear plugs an inch wide. We are nodding acquaintances. I smile; his eyebrows raise in surprise to see me in the morning. He flashes an almost-smile, looking quickly away. But his mouth hangs wrong on his face, and I wonder, as I step into the street, if some malicious thought had slipped out.
Perfecto, the security guard with the unchained smile, waves as I pass, his grin as big as any other morning. But he's wrong, too. Like another expression moves underneath that smile.
As I walk through the day, I am suspicious of everyone. My colleagues have occult motives, communicating in code. The placement of a cup, the roll of a pen along a desk, a laugh. I believe none of it. They're playacting, every one of them. The man at the cafeteria, the pharmacist, the FedEx guy. Once I look away, they relax into their true, hideous faces. When I look again, I see the trail of effort, that last furtive movement after replacing the mask.
I am sad, numb on the bus home. The boy with his stand-up bass is at the front. He's a favorite of mine, cradling the bass' neck on his shoulder, long arms wrapped around, a book propped open on the body of the instrument. But tonight he's an impostor, not the kid I feel tender toward, wanting to smooth the cowlick at the back of his head.
The kid wrestles the bass onto the street, and a girl with red lips climbs on and sits beside me. Slowly, a scent seeps in to my consciousness. Her perfume, cheap and sharp. I open my eyes and nostrils wide and breathe in.
The girl beside me is colored in as I roll the scent around my brain. She is plump as a peach, her lips opening deliciously over a smile - a real, beautiful smile - as she talks to her boyfriend on the phone.
Was that all it was?
A tall man climbs onto the bus, face like a bad road. He's holding his coat closed, glancing around nervously. A suspicious character, but he holds my attention. He looks softly into his coat. The oversized nose of a puppy blunders out from inside, bumping up against the man's face.
I'm falling in love again. With him, with the girl beside me. With the kid in the stocking hat, a studied nonchalance on his fourteen-year-old face, feeling big and brave in the city. With the woman holding herself like deposed royalty, like Anastasia incognito on the city bus.
I can smell them all. The sweat and the puppy breath and the Altoids in the pocket, the candy wrappers rolling lazy along the aisles.
Of course food didn't taste right. And I couldn't tell whether the litter box needed changing, or if that shirt was good for another wearing or should go in the laundry.
But, something else changed.
On the morning bus, I see a passenger I often share the evening ride with, the man with the tribal jewelry, black ear plugs an inch wide. We are nodding acquaintances. I smile; his eyebrows raise in surprise to see me in the morning. He flashes an almost-smile, looking quickly away. But his mouth hangs wrong on his face, and I wonder, as I step into the street, if some malicious thought had slipped out.
Perfecto, the security guard with the unchained smile, waves as I pass, his grin as big as any other morning. But he's wrong, too. Like another expression moves underneath that smile.
As I walk through the day, I am suspicious of everyone. My colleagues have occult motives, communicating in code. The placement of a cup, the roll of a pen along a desk, a laugh. I believe none of it. They're playacting, every one of them. The man at the cafeteria, the pharmacist, the FedEx guy. Once I look away, they relax into their true, hideous faces. When I look again, I see the trail of effort, that last furtive movement after replacing the mask.
I am sad, numb on the bus home. The boy with his stand-up bass is at the front. He's a favorite of mine, cradling the bass' neck on his shoulder, long arms wrapped around, a book propped open on the body of the instrument. But tonight he's an impostor, not the kid I feel tender toward, wanting to smooth the cowlick at the back of his head.
The kid wrestles the bass onto the street, and a girl with red lips climbs on and sits beside me. Slowly, a scent seeps in to my consciousness. Her perfume, cheap and sharp. I open my eyes and nostrils wide and breathe in.
The girl beside me is colored in as I roll the scent around my brain. She is plump as a peach, her lips opening deliciously over a smile - a real, beautiful smile - as she talks to her boyfriend on the phone.
Was that all it was?
A tall man climbs onto the bus, face like a bad road. He's holding his coat closed, glancing around nervously. A suspicious character, but he holds my attention. He looks softly into his coat. The oversized nose of a puppy blunders out from inside, bumping up against the man's face.
I'm falling in love again. With him, with the girl beside me. With the kid in the stocking hat, a studied nonchalance on his fourteen-year-old face, feeling big and brave in the city. With the woman holding herself like deposed royalty, like Anastasia incognito on the city bus.
I can smell them all. The sweat and the puppy breath and the Altoids in the pocket, the candy wrappers rolling lazy along the aisles.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
We'll be closed for Christmas
It's Christmas Eve and pretty quiet in the city. People are away seeing relatives or hiding from it all in Tahoe or Mexico or tucked deep inside their houses. At the grocery store a middle-aged Asian man is wearing a propeller beanie striped in candy colors, gravely reading a label as the propeller slowly turns. It may be his wife in another part of the store, in full elf regalia, green stockings to tall, peaked hat.
We've had three small earthquakes in two days here. The first one rolls slowly under us as Mr. Billy & I sit on the couch, talking. We stop and look at each other, both of us thinking Earthquake earthquake, is this only the beginning, the leading edge of a bigger one, of The Big One? But it tails off, leaving us dizzy for ten minutes after. Another the next evening, and we watch our bookcases creak and rattle. The third on Saturday morning, as we come slowly awake, Mr. Billy eyeing the glass block that sits on top of the bookshelf beside the bed, tracing a trajectory from bookshelf to bed, while I wonder What does it mean, three earthquakes in a row? and for the first time, I'm afraid. Were we dreaming, we wonder, wandering into the living room in stocking feet, checking ourselves on Did you feel it.
Finding ourselves still alive on Christmas eve, we amble down to Howard's Café for breakfast. The waitress waves at us while we find our seat; a smaller than usual weekend crowd. It suits us just fine. An old man walks through the door, and half a dozen voices say, "Sheldon!" Without even pausing, he turns around and goes out, only to come in again. The waitress in the reindeer horns sits to talk with him, her skirt riding up just a bit to show red tights. I ask our waitress if I can take her picture, and she runs to the back to get her own camera. The three waitresses pose for me. They're beautiful, smiling and laughing, their arms around each other, and I wonder, for just a second, if the ground is shifting beneath my feet.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Contact
My laptop is back, finally finally, purring warmly on my lap, glowing in the dim light of the living room.
I've missed you all.
Tonight, waiting at the bus stop, an old black man, bent at the waist, holding on to the signpost with both hands. A car passes, and he reaches out a hand, hailing it, watching it down the road.
"I need a cab..." he says.
A younger man with gray black skin, missing several front teeth walks by. "You need a cab?" he asks loudly. "I'll find you a cab."
The younger man stands on the corner, eyes open for cabs. It's a busy corner, surely one will come by soon.
The old man thinks every car is a cab.
"Cab!" he says, cranky now. "I need a cab."
Finally one stops on the opposite side of the street. I wave to the cabbie, then ask the man if he needs help crossing the street.
"Wha-?" he says, eyes looking wide into mine, tightening his grasp on the signpost. "I'm not going over there, no. No." He braces his feet against whoever is surely determined to drag him away. His irises are ringed with blue.
The younger man yells at the cabbie to turn around. The cab pulls around the corner, slows, then drives away up the street.
The younger man walks away, shaking his head, frustrated. "If he won't take a cab when I find him one..." I think I see another cab on the opposite side of the street. I ask the old man if he could cross the street with my help. He seems to be considering it when he spies another car.
"CAB!" he cries.
I watch for a taxi on my side of the street, when a bus pulls up. "Cab..." the old man says, then climbs the stairs onto the bus.
The younger man reappears. "He find a cab?"
"Got on the bus."
"Well, good. I figger, I hope someone helps me out when I'm old, you know?"
I nod and thank him. My bus is arriving. Time to go home.
I've missed you all.
Tonight, waiting at the bus stop, an old black man, bent at the waist, holding on to the signpost with both hands. A car passes, and he reaches out a hand, hailing it, watching it down the road.
"I need a cab..." he says.
A younger man with gray black skin, missing several front teeth walks by. "You need a cab?" he asks loudly. "I'll find you a cab."
The younger man stands on the corner, eyes open for cabs. It's a busy corner, surely one will come by soon.
The old man thinks every car is a cab.
"Cab!" he says, cranky now. "I need a cab."
Finally one stops on the opposite side of the street. I wave to the cabbie, then ask the man if he needs help crossing the street.
"Wha-?" he says, eyes looking wide into mine, tightening his grasp on the signpost. "I'm not going over there, no. No." He braces his feet against whoever is surely determined to drag him away. His irises are ringed with blue.
The younger man yells at the cabbie to turn around. The cab pulls around the corner, slows, then drives away up the street.
The younger man walks away, shaking his head, frustrated. "If he won't take a cab when I find him one..." I think I see another cab on the opposite side of the street. I ask the old man if he could cross the street with my help. He seems to be considering it when he spies another car.
"CAB!" he cries.
I watch for a taxi on my side of the street, when a bus pulls up. "Cab..." the old man says, then climbs the stairs onto the bus.
The younger man reappears. "He find a cab?"
"Got on the bus."
"Well, good. I figger, I hope someone helps me out when I'm old, you know?"
I nod and thank him. My bus is arriving. Time to go home.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Full moon on Haight
The bus is late. I've been standing here for twenty minutes, while the bus stop fills up with people. A woman with a cane found a transfer on the sidewalk, still good for another hour. There are no takers; we all have passes.
Taxis troll by. One slows as it passes, the driver looking hard at me. I shake my head. Do I look like I want a taxi?
Still no bus. The moon is hanging just over the Walgreen's across the street, looking like a bright piece of candy. I'd like to reach up and pop it into my mouth, moonlight dribbling down my chin.
The taxi from before comes around again, stopping in the bus lane. The driver leans across the seat.
"You fightin' the feelin'? Don't fight the feelin', girl."
He's looking at me. Why me? I look around at the other people at the bus stop. Do I look like I can afford a taxi? I want to turn my pockets out to show how empty they are, but I don't have pockets.
"C'mon baby. I'll give you a discount of...twenty-five cents."
I have to laugh at that. He's getting into it.
"Fifty cents, then, whaddya say? Don't fight the feelin'."
He notices the woman standing next to me.
"Hey, I know you. I used to wash the windows in your neighborhood. Remember me?"
"Oh yeah," the woman's voice is deeper than his, like it's rising out of a tin pail of rocks, "I remember you. Didn' know you washed windows, though. I'm on disability now. Got a bus pass."
A couple comes out of the diner behind me.
"You're welcome to call me if you like," says the woman, "although it isn't a requirement."
She kisses his cheek, and walks away. Was it a date, or a job interview? Who the hell says it isn't a "requirement" to call?
The bus, finally. Two buses, one right behind the other. The one behind is empty, but I'm grooving on the people. I take the one in front.
I sit next to a woman covered with freckles, so deep and beautifully dense, it's like alien skin, like brocade, like a decorative tattoo. Her eyebrow is pierced.
In front sits a white man with a service dog at his feet, so blond he's almost albino. Beside him is a blue black man. The white man asks the black man if the dog bothers him. He says no.
The white man rocks in his seat, an extended nodding, constantly renewed assent. Beside him, his neighbor rocks in counterpoint. His movement is impatient; at any minute he'll rock himself onto his feet and off the bus. The blond man places one thumb on his knee, spreads his hand, measuring the distance from his own knee to the knee of his neighbor, his pinky hovering a naked millimeter above the other man's knee, until he can feel the electrons bouncing off the stranger's legs. He retracts his hand sharply.
Out the window, I see a poster for America's Next Top Model. A collection of arms, legs, breasts, blank faces. All these girls smashed and reshaped like playdough; I can't tell one from the other. Is this beautiful? I'd rather look at the people on the bus, the men rocking back and forth, the freckled woman next to me.
I think I'm in love with her. She's talking on the phone.
"Yeah, well I think she's still trying to deal with her mother's death, you know? She's seeing - she's Catholic, right? - so she's seeing this nun, like once a week, and this nun told her about a big cross in Burlingame. It's like this big cross, and you leave your problems at its foot, you know? So that's happening tonight, and I thought I'd go with her..."
Or the old woman across the aisle. Skin wrinkled and creased like a foil gum wrapper. High, proud crook to her nose. Well dressed. She could be a duchess, riding the bus. A button on her purse enjoins me to "Be Green."
My stop. I pull myself away from the freckled woman, the duchess, the rocking men. I wave at the bus driver, stepping off. The bus pullls away into the night, lit up inside like a rolling living room, like another person's life, warm and alive, glimpsed for a minute, then moving on.
Taxis troll by. One slows as it passes, the driver looking hard at me. I shake my head. Do I look like I want a taxi?
Still no bus. The moon is hanging just over the Walgreen's across the street, looking like a bright piece of candy. I'd like to reach up and pop it into my mouth, moonlight dribbling down my chin.
The taxi from before comes around again, stopping in the bus lane. The driver leans across the seat.
"You fightin' the feelin'? Don't fight the feelin', girl."
He's looking at me. Why me? I look around at the other people at the bus stop. Do I look like I can afford a taxi? I want to turn my pockets out to show how empty they are, but I don't have pockets.
"C'mon baby. I'll give you a discount of...twenty-five cents."
I have to laugh at that. He's getting into it.
"Fifty cents, then, whaddya say? Don't fight the feelin'."
He notices the woman standing next to me.
"Hey, I know you. I used to wash the windows in your neighborhood. Remember me?"
"Oh yeah," the woman's voice is deeper than his, like it's rising out of a tin pail of rocks, "I remember you. Didn' know you washed windows, though. I'm on disability now. Got a bus pass."
A couple comes out of the diner behind me.
"You're welcome to call me if you like," says the woman, "although it isn't a requirement."
She kisses his cheek, and walks away. Was it a date, or a job interview? Who the hell says it isn't a "requirement" to call?
The bus, finally. Two buses, one right behind the other. The one behind is empty, but I'm grooving on the people. I take the one in front.
I sit next to a woman covered with freckles, so deep and beautifully dense, it's like alien skin, like brocade, like a decorative tattoo. Her eyebrow is pierced.
In front sits a white man with a service dog at his feet, so blond he's almost albino. Beside him is a blue black man. The white man asks the black man if the dog bothers him. He says no.
The white man rocks in his seat, an extended nodding, constantly renewed assent. Beside him, his neighbor rocks in counterpoint. His movement is impatient; at any minute he'll rock himself onto his feet and off the bus. The blond man places one thumb on his knee, spreads his hand, measuring the distance from his own knee to the knee of his neighbor, his pinky hovering a naked millimeter above the other man's knee, until he can feel the electrons bouncing off the stranger's legs. He retracts his hand sharply.
Out the window, I see a poster for America's Next Top Model. A collection of arms, legs, breasts, blank faces. All these girls smashed and reshaped like playdough; I can't tell one from the other. Is this beautiful? I'd rather look at the people on the bus, the men rocking back and forth, the freckled woman next to me.
I think I'm in love with her. She's talking on the phone.
"Yeah, well I think she's still trying to deal with her mother's death, you know? She's seeing - she's Catholic, right? - so she's seeing this nun, like once a week, and this nun told her about a big cross in Burlingame. It's like this big cross, and you leave your problems at its foot, you know? So that's happening tonight, and I thought I'd go with her..."
Or the old woman across the aisle. Skin wrinkled and creased like a foil gum wrapper. High, proud crook to her nose. Well dressed. She could be a duchess, riding the bus. A button on her purse enjoins me to "Be Green."
My stop. I pull myself away from the freckled woman, the duchess, the rocking men. I wave at the bus driver, stepping off. The bus pullls away into the night, lit up inside like a rolling living room, like another person's life, warm and alive, glimpsed for a minute, then moving on.
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