I sit quietly on the bench locating the one. The choices are palpable
at 5:45 on a Friday evening. The numbers are astounding to the
unfamiliar person. How could so many people fit onto one train? You
might think that some get on the current train while the others wait for
the next, but as the next is still ten minutes away, more will come to
await the sardine-like ride home. More for the picking. I look without
moving my eyes. Focused on the boards in the platform, one dark brown
from moisture, the next lighter brown as if from a different time far
before trains. I see shoes and pant legs scrape the ground. I listen
for the voices, listen for the tone, listen to their words awaiting my
cue. The key to my time here.
I don't need to catch this train. I've been here all day and have no plans to leave.
The man nearest to me grew up in the Soviet Union back when it was the
Soviet Union. He's roughly fifty to fifty five with a leather hunters
cap with wool insulation visible in the upturned ear flaps and bill.
His deep Russian accent indicates years growing up in a country where
everyone spoke the same words and the same dialect. The finer
intonations and enunciation used in other languages never learned. A
vocabulary stifled by a lack of early exposure to other cultures and
other languages. Many Europeans understand many languages due to the
close proximity of other nations with different languages spoken. The
hunter here must have grown up a bit more central and not so border
near.
"Come whenever you like. I am still on my way home. I am just
giving you permission to enter my apartment. I smell gas."
"Permission" comes out with difficulty like a trick question on the
brain and a thick tongue. Another language learned later in life yet the
accent stays the same. Assumptions made come quickly. Someone else
must let this person in to fix the gas. He lives alone. Does he need
someone to care for him? Someone to be thinking about him? Someone for
him to be able to call and say, if you don't mind, could you let
someone into my place? Here's a key. Keep it if you like.
It's
rarer than I like today finding someone actually talking. The girl with
the long brown hair in the mocha wool hat and multicolored scarf is
talking to a guy with black hair, a leather jacket with far too many
zippers and an earring that he wants to be seen. He tucks his tufts of
uncombed black hair behind his ear every couple of minutes to avoid
anyone losing sight of his rebellion.
"Every time I ride the train, I
sit next to the same guy that seems to think he owns the raises section
between the seat by the window and the one in the aisle. I wind up
with half of a seat and get eyed suspiciously when I inadvertently rub
shoulders with him like I caused the train to shift when it passed the
Chicago stop and planned to take his wallet. He inevitably pulls his
long wool coat closer around him like the train car just got colder and
glares at me." Another swipe at the black hair that has fallen over his
ear while he emphatically mimics the coat maneuver from his story. His
audience giggles placing her mitten-ed hand up to her mouth and looks
around trying not to be too noticeable with her laugh. She's flirting
and he's being friendly. She doesn't realize he think of her as the
same as the man that will, on today's train, do just what he explained
to her moments before. A man with preconceived notions about people and
appearances. The leather jacket is somewhat tattered despite being
purchased a week prior. This is how it was in the store as well.
Custom made for making people uncomfortable. Just as he liked. Just as
he wanted. This coat and the earring are his test for admission into
his life. She thinks she has passed the test, but he's not interested
in someone that can only get past the differences in appearance for
people she finds attractive.
I continue my search. They each have
their place. A place they have chosen. A look, a mindset, a
personality distinctly theirs. They don't need definition. They don't
need guidance. They don't need a guardian angel. They just need
themselves. I sit on the bench on the Purple Line side of the Quincy
stop when I find her. That's the one, but she wasn't on the side I had
expected. The purple line in the afternoon is the busier of the two
meaning everyone rushes to one side because, at this stop, the purple
line takes a direct shot out of downtown. The Brown line goes around
the downtown are once more before heading out in the same direction.
Some days I've sat on this bench waiting beyond the rain and wind.
Beyond the pigeons wondering the tracks considering the Brown line side.
It's a patient side. If you are heading out of downtown, the Brown
line, at this point, is less crowded. Someone could easily wonder on at
5:30 in the afternoon and find themselves a seat before the end of the
loop brings more travelers.
I can't imagine how it's taken so long
to realize that I've been on the wrong side all this time. Three years
riding this route and I had always chosen the side of quantity over what
I now realize was quality. I begin to look up more as the train here
leaves and catch her eyes while she was reading the side of the train.
This train had a cola ad on the side. "If this is your train, this is
your drink." I realize now, this is not my drink and this is not my
train. Our eyes meet for a second and no longer. She looks away as
soon as we meet. She does not fear my gaze, but she knows what it can
mean. The gaze is not unwanted, but it can be unwelcome. In another
time, on another train tine. The same look might bring fear. Today,
however, I am not the only one hunting.
I look down tracking the
different boards like one of them contains the secret formula for the
antidote to a poison I have just been injected with. I need to think. I
need to know how to act. How to react. I've been sitting and waiting
for this moment, for these conditions, for this setting for six months
now and never thought past this point. Panic sets in and fades. Life
is not meant to be this difficult. When things are right, they are
right. When they are wrong, they are wrong. That's all. I found her.
That is right. She is on the other side. That is wrong. I fear I've
jumped to a conclusion that is not correct. Waiting patiently, check.
Eyes meeting, check. Devastated that things are not perfect, check.
Stomach falling through the floorboards as I watch her train arrive
before I can make any decisions, check.
An airline advertising more
leg room owns the side of this train. I can see through the window as
she stands as the train stops. Our eyes meet through the window and
this time I look away first. I don't get to watch her disappear from
the platform. I don't want to watch her disappear from the platform. I
want to look up at my loss and see the bench empty so I wait. The
train departs and there is silence. The hunter on the phone is gone.
The leather jacket, the colorful scarf, gone. Silence between crowds.
The platform is empty on both sides and I go back to my hunt.
A
lonely practice, my time is precious to me. Patience is difficult, but
it is my only weapon. I, too afraid to make any moves, am a hunter. I
am seated stoically praying, pretending I have the power to bring about
the end of these days. The end of this search. I sit...and hope.
A creaking door and a tap on the shoulder. Our eyes meet again, now on the same side. That was not her train after all.
When it's right, it's right. When it's wrong, you just need to work a little harder at it.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
Tuesday, December 6, 2005
000 Open Forum
It's strange how impulses come and go throughout a life. MSN had a
story on how the brain works. The memory take a moment in your life and
dissects it into the tiny insignificant details that make the whole.
You may not realize it at the time, but you see more than you can know. That first moment when you see the girl on the front porch of the house next door. When you chase down that certain someone that you deliver packages to. When you run a stop sign and hit a car that you didn't think would be there. All of these moments store in your brain. The brain doesn't assign one cell to the memory. It breaks it up. The braided tails of her hair hanging down. The sunlight and how you stopped breathing for a second. The scent in the air. The light in the hall. The eyes on the other driver's face. All of these things are stored in the bits of the moment that they are and get associated to a sense of the moment more than the actual moment. Sometime when it's sunny out and the wind is just right or you walk down another hall with similar lighting, you will expect to see her there. A flash in the neurons. A trick of nature. Everything is connected even when it isn't. In these moments, you find happiness and joy. In these moments, you find sorrow and mourn your lost innocence. In these moments, some things become clear.
Today, in this moment, I flashed through the things I had dreamt so hard about in my life. The wants, the attempts, the cowardice. The futile waste of time that is what I am now. I realize, in this moment, that I want nothing else but this feeling. The sense of doing something I truly enjoy. It's finding what you've always loved and getting to keep it with you.
You may not realize it at the time, but you see more than you can know. That first moment when you see the girl on the front porch of the house next door. When you chase down that certain someone that you deliver packages to. When you run a stop sign and hit a car that you didn't think would be there. All of these moments store in your brain. The brain doesn't assign one cell to the memory. It breaks it up. The braided tails of her hair hanging down. The sunlight and how you stopped breathing for a second. The scent in the air. The light in the hall. The eyes on the other driver's face. All of these things are stored in the bits of the moment that they are and get associated to a sense of the moment more than the actual moment. Sometime when it's sunny out and the wind is just right or you walk down another hall with similar lighting, you will expect to see her there. A flash in the neurons. A trick of nature. Everything is connected even when it isn't. In these moments, you find happiness and joy. In these moments, you find sorrow and mourn your lost innocence. In these moments, some things become clear.
Today, in this moment, I flashed through the things I had dreamt so hard about in my life. The wants, the attempts, the cowardice. The futile waste of time that is what I am now. I realize, in this moment, that I want nothing else but this feeling. The sense of doing something I truly enjoy. It's finding what you've always loved and getting to keep it with you.
Sunday, December 4, 2005
001 The 11am epiphany
There never should have been an inch of snow on the sidewalk this week.
I watched the construction over the weeks prior to the snow. Beige and
red blocks of stone raised from the sidewalk on Adams next to the Sears
Tower. The exposed underside of the sidewalk was compiled by a valley
of empty stone with a trail of copper tubing to heat the blocks of stone
and prevent any icy build up. The areas on Jackson and on Adams on the
south and north sides, respectively, of the block that housed the Sears
Tower consists of a low graded slope. Maybe 20 degrees. 30 degrees.
They were enough of a slope for dangerous ice formation, but safe enough
for walking on dry days.
The Ace hardware store on the opposite side of Adams would make most assume the tower would have sent someone across the street for a bucket of salt to add to the effectiveness of the heat coils. This would not occur to those in the Tower.
It was anticipated that rain would fall for most of the afternoon on that October day. The wind was brisk, but none expected the rain to freeze on the way down. For an hour, the rain pelted the ground on the downhill section of Adams. Nine thirty in the morning until ten thirty, the freezing rain lay its trap as the snow began to fall for half an hour after that. The camouflage cover would be timed perfectly.
The heating coils had not been preheated. The stone would reluctantly heat up after thirty or forty minutes, but not soon enough for the lunch rush. A thin layer of snow had formed on the ground before the operational procedures were started and thirty people began to walk up the hill on the trip for lunch. A handful coming from the Tower itself, all shared the walk toward the west for food on an unexpectedly cold day. Twenty feet up the hill, a woman in a red coat find the first trap set under the snow. She slips as she looks across the street hoping to have another option for lunch that does not involve more time spent in the cold. The man in the three piece suit next to her catches her arm and saves her from her stumble. The pack continues the rush up the slope and all have made it to the top except for that woman in the red coat and one other following her. Three steps from level ground, her left foot in the air to step is the off balance factor as the right foot precariously placed on a snow less footprint from walkers ahead that send her face first to the ground. Her left foot spins backwards in an ark and strikes the man following her square in the jaw. The man's head down gave the woman a push off point to save herself at the cost of this poor man without a coat on. This poor fool felt the press of the shoe off of his face. The muscles in his neck strained as the pressure on his head sent through the entire body causing him to tumble backwards beginning with a back flip that ended with his head catching the stones. The stones, roughly 30 degrees at that point in the heating cycle, would be completely clear of snow and ice by the time I would come to at the bottom of the block. Third person is the manner in which the story was told. Third person is the manner in which it is recollected. The footprint on my forehead would be the only clear memory. In first person.
The Ace hardware store on the opposite side of Adams would make most assume the tower would have sent someone across the street for a bucket of salt to add to the effectiveness of the heat coils. This would not occur to those in the Tower.
It was anticipated that rain would fall for most of the afternoon on that October day. The wind was brisk, but none expected the rain to freeze on the way down. For an hour, the rain pelted the ground on the downhill section of Adams. Nine thirty in the morning until ten thirty, the freezing rain lay its trap as the snow began to fall for half an hour after that. The camouflage cover would be timed perfectly.
The heating coils had not been preheated. The stone would reluctantly heat up after thirty or forty minutes, but not soon enough for the lunch rush. A thin layer of snow had formed on the ground before the operational procedures were started and thirty people began to walk up the hill on the trip for lunch. A handful coming from the Tower itself, all shared the walk toward the west for food on an unexpectedly cold day. Twenty feet up the hill, a woman in a red coat find the first trap set under the snow. She slips as she looks across the street hoping to have another option for lunch that does not involve more time spent in the cold. The man in the three piece suit next to her catches her arm and saves her from her stumble. The pack continues the rush up the slope and all have made it to the top except for that woman in the red coat and one other following her. Three steps from level ground, her left foot in the air to step is the off balance factor as the right foot precariously placed on a snow less footprint from walkers ahead that send her face first to the ground. Her left foot spins backwards in an ark and strikes the man following her square in the jaw. The man's head down gave the woman a push off point to save herself at the cost of this poor man without a coat on. This poor fool felt the press of the shoe off of his face. The muscles in his neck strained as the pressure on his head sent through the entire body causing him to tumble backwards beginning with a back flip that ended with his head catching the stones. The stones, roughly 30 degrees at that point in the heating cycle, would be completely clear of snow and ice by the time I would come to at the bottom of the block. Third person is the manner in which the story was told. Third person is the manner in which it is recollected. The footprint on my forehead would be the only clear memory. In first person.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Race 003: Back to the back to the back to the...
Settling into the restroom with the key I ripped from the poor little
girl's hand, I worked the squeaking rust that remained of the hot water
knob. Through the bolts of pain I managed to wash the green ooze from
my hands so as not to infect myself any further. The treachery in this
group is becoming alarming. Not only have I fallen behind the pack of
real competitors, but now Thad, I still can't believe any loving parent
would name their child that, had even gone as far as to sabotage my
sports drink. Granted on any other occasion I would have found the
sneaking of moonshine into a sports drink humorous as I came back from a
light jog or after a game of tennis in the park, before the elbow
shattering mugging on Vine two weeks ago, but under these circumstances,
unforgivable.
In the midst of my desperate dash down Oak to keep ahead of the pack and sweating profusely from the extra sprint after the junk yard fiasco. I was in need of a refreshing sports drink after a rough patch, but a burning, choking, gagging sensation sending me lurching over the curb and through a poor hot dog vendor's cart was what I received. In all of my experience in the "dangerous city", as my mother called it when I moved here, I never thought the worst weapon I would be attacked with would be scalding hot dog water and a surprisingly sharp set of tongs wielded by an angry Hungarian man.
"I'm telling the clerk! I was here first and I need the bathroom as much you do."
Whipped from my memories, I find myself lying next to a trash can with no lid overflowing with paper towels and an empty condom wrapper. I guess this is a unisex restroom. I only wish that were the most alarming thing I found on that floor. I don't suggest going through gas station restroom trash cans without a HAZMAT suit on, but I couldn't help myself from dragging the bright pink wig from the trash buried beneath what originally looked like someone had a bloody nose and used paper towels to clean up the mess. I only had to dig a bit further to find the piggy mask. The people I work with are so weird.
"Is there a problem in there?"
A man's voice now. Possibly the man at the counter that told me to "puke at someone else's place of work" obviously smelling the alcohol emanating from my breath, my shirt, my hair, my shoes, my shorts and anywhere else on me not gracefully protected from the green spewing that had occurred from my refreshment. Pull it together, you've only been delayed by... 35 minutes! Had it really been that long? How do I lose so much time so quickly? I was five minutes ahead of pace before the quarter point. The quarter point, the masked assault, the drink fiasco and the bridge collapse. No time left to waste on vomiting and exhaustion. Time for the fast track.
"Don't come back, you bitch!" A parting sentiment after the door kick I used unintentionally breaks his nose. The little girl is nowhere to be found. She must not have needed the restroom as much as I did after all. Or maybe I was wrong. In my full sprint around the corner, I run headlong into a pink bike with a ribbons and a banana seat. No girl in sight. Just the bike almost strategically placed across the sidewalk as if she knew I'd come barreling around the corner with no chance of stopping.
Before I know it, I'm pedaling as fast as I can away from the store front. I'm losing small pieces of time with each consistent spill and blackout. Tripping over the bike was my latest along with some form of reasoning that gave me possession of the offending bike. I'm nearly 40 minutes behind and I don't have much choice. On top of that, these training wheels may be slowing me down more than the sports drink.
As I begin to shift my weight back and forth frantically as I try to make up time and break the training wheels off by force, I vaguely notice the sound of an engine running all out coming from somewhere near.. Luckily the right training wheel finally snapped off after far too much pressure causing the little pink rocket to take a sharp right turn. Just as the front wheel hits the sidewalk followed by the left training wheel snapping off, I tumble forward off of the bike landing just soon enough to see the cab the sped by me, turn sharply without slowing down and take a missile launch into the brick building ahead of me.
Contrary to the intent, it would seem the training wheels nearly cost me my life today. It's only a bit after I stand up that I realize where the cab embedded itself to my amusement. Fitting end, I guess.
In the midst of my desperate dash down Oak to keep ahead of the pack and sweating profusely from the extra sprint after the junk yard fiasco. I was in need of a refreshing sports drink after a rough patch, but a burning, choking, gagging sensation sending me lurching over the curb and through a poor hot dog vendor's cart was what I received. In all of my experience in the "dangerous city", as my mother called it when I moved here, I never thought the worst weapon I would be attacked with would be scalding hot dog water and a surprisingly sharp set of tongs wielded by an angry Hungarian man.
"I'm telling the clerk! I was here first and I need the bathroom as much you do."
Whipped from my memories, I find myself lying next to a trash can with no lid overflowing with paper towels and an empty condom wrapper. I guess this is a unisex restroom. I only wish that were the most alarming thing I found on that floor. I don't suggest going through gas station restroom trash cans without a HAZMAT suit on, but I couldn't help myself from dragging the bright pink wig from the trash buried beneath what originally looked like someone had a bloody nose and used paper towels to clean up the mess. I only had to dig a bit further to find the piggy mask. The people I work with are so weird.
"Is there a problem in there?"
A man's voice now. Possibly the man at the counter that told me to "puke at someone else's place of work" obviously smelling the alcohol emanating from my breath, my shirt, my hair, my shoes, my shorts and anywhere else on me not gracefully protected from the green spewing that had occurred from my refreshment. Pull it together, you've only been delayed by... 35 minutes! Had it really been that long? How do I lose so much time so quickly? I was five minutes ahead of pace before the quarter point. The quarter point, the masked assault, the drink fiasco and the bridge collapse. No time left to waste on vomiting and exhaustion. Time for the fast track.
"Don't come back, you bitch!" A parting sentiment after the door kick I used unintentionally breaks his nose. The little girl is nowhere to be found. She must not have needed the restroom as much as I did after all. Or maybe I was wrong. In my full sprint around the corner, I run headlong into a pink bike with a ribbons and a banana seat. No girl in sight. Just the bike almost strategically placed across the sidewalk as if she knew I'd come barreling around the corner with no chance of stopping.
Before I know it, I'm pedaling as fast as I can away from the store front. I'm losing small pieces of time with each consistent spill and blackout. Tripping over the bike was my latest along with some form of reasoning that gave me possession of the offending bike. I'm nearly 40 minutes behind and I don't have much choice. On top of that, these training wheels may be slowing me down more than the sports drink.
As I begin to shift my weight back and forth frantically as I try to make up time and break the training wheels off by force, I vaguely notice the sound of an engine running all out coming from somewhere near.. Luckily the right training wheel finally snapped off after far too much pressure causing the little pink rocket to take a sharp right turn. Just as the front wheel hits the sidewalk followed by the left training wheel snapping off, I tumble forward off of the bike landing just soon enough to see the cab the sped by me, turn sharply without slowing down and take a missile launch into the brick building ahead of me.
Contrary to the intent, it would seem the training wheels nearly cost me my life today. It's only a bit after I stand up that I realize where the cab embedded itself to my amusement. Fitting end, I guess.
Races 002: In service...
I stood staring at the crumbling brick slowing uncovering the desks
where I sat the week before scouting a route, opening an account and
walking out with a brand new bottle cozy and beach ball. A brick
dangling from 10 feet up dropped pointedly onto the light atop of the
cab causing a sparking, breaking of glass and the decidedly accurate Not
In Service light to switch on.
We picked 3/4 Bank for it's location near the course and for how busy it usually is giving us ample time to sit in a bank manager's office staring out the windows at the streets being blocked off for Sunday's big run. I had to endure the benefits of direct deposit checking along with how great the tiered interest rates system for MaximumSuperSavingsSupreme accounts were. I was to set up an account to keep suspicion aside if anything ever came back to what were we doing the days leading up to the race to give credibility to why I was here. $200 would be enough and I could easily close the account at a later date without any penalty according to my SuperSavings Associate Kent.
Kent had a gap tooth grin but the gap wasn't between the front two teeth like normal people. He had an unearned swagger walking through the office shaking his ass like he was spreading incense to the people with it. He was God's gift to women if you're an atheist. A mullet would have completed his package nicely.
"Why don't you let me put down the initial minimum deposit for you and see what kind of interest I can earn."
Never one to cause a scene, I pretended not to notice the gesture and silently laid the check in front of him and told him, "No, thank you." It took the strength of the chair as I clenched the arms of the chair to prevent myself from making a scene. It gave my some small sense of satisfaction to watch Kent's nameplate now embedded in the windshield of the cab that tried to run me down. If I ever see Edward again, he'll be on the business end of the tazer my mother bought for me when I told her I was moving to the big city.
It had seemed for about an hour now that there was no longer a team atmosphere. After the misdirection from John and the coffee fiasco with Jen, nothing surprised me after that. Not even the lead up that led to Cab 626 racing into the 3/4 Bank really surprised me at this point. Startled, yes. Scared the living hell out of me, of course. But everything seems feasible given our scam and odd congregation of players. $300,000 can turn most anyone a little deviant. Even Pastor Conners had his part in this. Churches need money too. I suppose that's why I didn't even blink when a couple of the choir boys appeared next to the crushed cab with baseball bats. When the first one swung at me, that was a bit of a surprise.
As I narrowly dodged the second swing, I noticed the cab at end of the block with Edward in it. There was no traffic, but it had stopped so Edward could watch the choir boys do their job as he was well aware of what they were there for.
As tired as I was from the crash he had caused, I began a full out sprint for his cab. He was not expecting that as his eyes grew to twice their size and he began frantically screaming at the cab driver to drive. I can imagine screaming is a little distracting to any driver. Quite obviously, this driver was not ready for the task at hand as he stepped on the gas for approximately 12 seconds before the delivery truck completed the T and the cab began to roll.
The desired effect was achieved for the rest of the team as I stood watching the cab tumble with Edward inside. The choirboys began to run away realizing the ramifications of being a part of this. I imagine some Hail Mary's were flying as the feet hit to pavement and the sound of wooden bats hitting the street rang behind the crushing of steel.
I stood in disbelief at the cab now swaying back and forth on its roof for about 3 minutes of wondering and worrying if Edward was alright. I wanted him to suffer for the betrayal, but I didn't want him to die. Maimed and beaten, but not dismantled. If he had taken a gear shift to the groin in the roll, that was preferable as well, but death was more than I was willing to live with.
The scenarios began to run through my head of the questioning by the police, the looks of his family and the abject denial by the rest of the team of any knowledge of Edward when the screeching of metal began again. Edward's face was now clear and the blood dripping down his forehead could not disguise the rage he now felt towards the one the had to be to blame for his current condition. No one blames themselves.
It was now almost 10 am and the regular runners were getting near to the end and it was time to get moving if any of us was going to even come close to matching the real runners for the prize. Edward just gave me a little more motivation as a I rushed the corner and took down the nearest alley heading towards the finish line.
We picked 3/4 Bank for it's location near the course and for how busy it usually is giving us ample time to sit in a bank manager's office staring out the windows at the streets being blocked off for Sunday's big run. I had to endure the benefits of direct deposit checking along with how great the tiered interest rates system for MaximumSuperSavingsSupreme accounts were. I was to set up an account to keep suspicion aside if anything ever came back to what were we doing the days leading up to the race to give credibility to why I was here. $200 would be enough and I could easily close the account at a later date without any penalty according to my SuperSavings Associate Kent.
Kent had a gap tooth grin but the gap wasn't between the front two teeth like normal people. He had an unearned swagger walking through the office shaking his ass like he was spreading incense to the people with it. He was God's gift to women if you're an atheist. A mullet would have completed his package nicely.
"Why don't you let me put down the initial minimum deposit for you and see what kind of interest I can earn."
Never one to cause a scene, I pretended not to notice the gesture and silently laid the check in front of him and told him, "No, thank you." It took the strength of the chair as I clenched the arms of the chair to prevent myself from making a scene. It gave my some small sense of satisfaction to watch Kent's nameplate now embedded in the windshield of the cab that tried to run me down. If I ever see Edward again, he'll be on the business end of the tazer my mother bought for me when I told her I was moving to the big city.
It had seemed for about an hour now that there was no longer a team atmosphere. After the misdirection from John and the coffee fiasco with Jen, nothing surprised me after that. Not even the lead up that led to Cab 626 racing into the 3/4 Bank really surprised me at this point. Startled, yes. Scared the living hell out of me, of course. But everything seems feasible given our scam and odd congregation of players. $300,000 can turn most anyone a little deviant. Even Pastor Conners had his part in this. Churches need money too. I suppose that's why I didn't even blink when a couple of the choir boys appeared next to the crushed cab with baseball bats. When the first one swung at me, that was a bit of a surprise.
As I narrowly dodged the second swing, I noticed the cab at end of the block with Edward in it. There was no traffic, but it had stopped so Edward could watch the choir boys do their job as he was well aware of what they were there for.
As tired as I was from the crash he had caused, I began a full out sprint for his cab. He was not expecting that as his eyes grew to twice their size and he began frantically screaming at the cab driver to drive. I can imagine screaming is a little distracting to any driver. Quite obviously, this driver was not ready for the task at hand as he stepped on the gas for approximately 12 seconds before the delivery truck completed the T and the cab began to roll.
The desired effect was achieved for the rest of the team as I stood watching the cab tumble with Edward inside. The choirboys began to run away realizing the ramifications of being a part of this. I imagine some Hail Mary's were flying as the feet hit to pavement and the sound of wooden bats hitting the street rang behind the crushing of steel.
I stood in disbelief at the cab now swaying back and forth on its roof for about 3 minutes of wondering and worrying if Edward was alright. I wanted him to suffer for the betrayal, but I didn't want him to die. Maimed and beaten, but not dismantled. If he had taken a gear shift to the groin in the roll, that was preferable as well, but death was more than I was willing to live with.
The scenarios began to run through my head of the questioning by the police, the looks of his family and the abject denial by the rest of the team of any knowledge of Edward when the screeching of metal began again. Edward's face was now clear and the blood dripping down his forehead could not disguise the rage he now felt towards the one the had to be to blame for his current condition. No one blames themselves.
It was now almost 10 am and the regular runners were getting near to the end and it was time to get moving if any of us was going to even come close to matching the real runners for the prize. Edward just gave me a little more motivation as a I rushed the corner and took down the nearest alley heading towards the finish line.
Races 001: It's the end my friend...the only end
Savagely racing down the alley as if there were any point to my
destination at this stage. I knew everything that would happen. I knew
that just as well as everything that had already been. Edward was dead
to me, possibly even dead dead, but he still had me curious as to how
this thing would end.
A bottle rocket glanced my thigh as I turned the corner into the middle of small neighborhood testing out their fireworks for the Fourth of July on North Raleigh. The name only works in a soft Southern accent, I admit, but I still found it catchy as I hurdled the 9 year old's huddled in front of beer bottle with a lighter. Not a single one of them seemed to notice that I was even there much less apologized for the friendly fire taken recently. All this for a cat.
Slipping down the narrow gap between 945 and 947, I glance back and catch my last glimpse of Edward before a flaming dart knocks him backwards out of sight. Years of taunting for having no coordination and forgetting to buy a cup once and a group of young boys finally helps me out. Karma does exist, just ask Kent.
At the first fire escape, I was cautious, but by the second one, I had begun to focus more on my burning lungs and the burned section of my jeans when a sharp pain at the top of my head and the smell of the broken Miller bottle on the ground reached my nostrils. Almost as fascinating as the sharp blinding shouts from my scalp was how I managed to track how close I was to the ground at each passing moment by the strength of the beer smell. Three clouds chased each other shaped like cars for about 20 seconds before my vision faded for what I would find was only a 1 minute and 25 seconds.
"It's exactly how long it takes to sing the first verse of 'She Bangs' before the chorus which is just when you woke up. I watched you fall and came over inspired. Do you love Ricky Martin too? I also enjoy a mix of cotton candy and vicadin."
It was Tammy's odd sense of humor. I'm glad we all decided to do this together even if it turned out less like a marathon and more like the rush on Normandy beach. I guess that's what happens when you stray 10 miles off course the official course in hopes of winning the big prize. Even a scam to beat the system by deviating just enough to get to the checkpoints without running the full course couldn't keep us together. Everyone wants to be Black Cat. Everybody wants the glory without the pain.
It's only fair that Tammy and I sat there and watched the race end just twenty yards down an alley from the homestretch. To be fair, Champ never looked so happy to come in second in all his life. I just hope I don't have an infection from the steel ladder of the fire escape. I guess we could all be winners after all...except for Edward. His t-shirt is still smoldering to this day.
A bottle rocket glanced my thigh as I turned the corner into the middle of small neighborhood testing out their fireworks for the Fourth of July on North Raleigh. The name only works in a soft Southern accent, I admit, but I still found it catchy as I hurdled the 9 year old's huddled in front of beer bottle with a lighter. Not a single one of them seemed to notice that I was even there much less apologized for the friendly fire taken recently. All this for a cat.
Slipping down the narrow gap between 945 and 947, I glance back and catch my last glimpse of Edward before a flaming dart knocks him backwards out of sight. Years of taunting for having no coordination and forgetting to buy a cup once and a group of young boys finally helps me out. Karma does exist, just ask Kent.
At the first fire escape, I was cautious, but by the second one, I had begun to focus more on my burning lungs and the burned section of my jeans when a sharp pain at the top of my head and the smell of the broken Miller bottle on the ground reached my nostrils. Almost as fascinating as the sharp blinding shouts from my scalp was how I managed to track how close I was to the ground at each passing moment by the strength of the beer smell. Three clouds chased each other shaped like cars for about 20 seconds before my vision faded for what I would find was only a 1 minute and 25 seconds.
"It's exactly how long it takes to sing the first verse of 'She Bangs' before the chorus which is just when you woke up. I watched you fall and came over inspired. Do you love Ricky Martin too? I also enjoy a mix of cotton candy and vicadin."
It was Tammy's odd sense of humor. I'm glad we all decided to do this together even if it turned out less like a marathon and more like the rush on Normandy beach. I guess that's what happens when you stray 10 miles off course the official course in hopes of winning the big prize. Even a scam to beat the system by deviating just enough to get to the checkpoints without running the full course couldn't keep us together. Everyone wants to be Black Cat. Everybody wants the glory without the pain.
It's only fair that Tammy and I sat there and watched the race end just twenty yards down an alley from the homestretch. To be fair, Champ never looked so happy to come in second in all his life. I just hope I don't have an infection from the steel ladder of the fire escape. I guess we could all be winners after all...except for Edward. His t-shirt is still smoldering to this day.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Pre-Nano Writing (From LiveJournal Archives)
I’ve looked for a while in stores, but it’s all so fake these days.
Spray on snow, chili pepper ornaments, and cotton stuffed snowman line
the shelves, but you, my dear, I found in the park the Saturday before
last. I don’t like shopping much. This explains the dust rug less
floor and the folding chair collection I deem living room furniture.
Even the luxurious bedroom suite I rely on each and every night consists
of a bundle of pillows duct taped together and a make shift head board
proudly designed by Domino’s and Pizza Hut. Needing a little style, I
went with the four-poster bed but I was a fourth post short until
recently. You never know what you’ll find just roaming the streets. A
discarded bottle of mad dog found on Taylor and Harvard becomes a brand
new flower vase. A ball of paint stained newspaper on Smith and Lee
finally gave me the flowers I’ve needed for my classy vase. That’s
pronounced "vahs" for some elegance. Every room needs light so I found a
lamp just lying on the sidewalk next to a moving van. Seeing as I’m not
made of money or time, I couldn’t just buy more or continue lurking
outside of the college dorms at year-end waiting for more hapless
movers. I need to be creative and, as luck would have it, someone just
broke a mirror in the bar on East 146th street and my local dumpster
merchants had a nuveux riche style stain glass mirror to reflect light
around my spacious studio apartment mansion. I’m most fond of my new
post or, more so, how I came to possess this mystical bed saver and date
magnet.
Strange things happen on the East side after 4am. Strange for the day to day 5 to 9ers, but commonplace for the groin rockers and the cane wielding power brokers of Superior and Lehigh. They’ve got style, they’ve got poise and they’ve got just the lady for you for only $50 an hour. More gold can be found in smiles in this neighborhood than in the jewelry district, and yet these men in power here do it all with little piggies freezing out in the cold night air. It was a standard knife fight over Canadian coins to pay for American love as I phrased it for the police later that same night or earlier that morning as it may be. I’ve never been one to tout celebrity, but the fact that I was quoted in the newspaper gave me certain air of pride that I never thought I would be ought to own. Despite references to a “dirt clad vagrant’ as the comment wielding participant in the conversation, I still find pride in the brush with glory know as Tammy Stanton of Channel 5’s action news. I think she may have been somewhat smitten with me had it not been for the sake of knowing I was much less dangerous than the glut of ex-cons living in the vicinity. Maybe it was my charismatic smile or the fact that may ragged clothing gave no place for my to hide a weapon, but, 10 minutes later, she was huddled in my apartment with me. Every good story leaves out tidbits to explain a person’s motivation. Why do I live in this area of town? What exactly is this new post for my bed? Why would an attractive news reporter find herself in the apartment of person she would, hours later, describe as a ‘dirt clad vagrant?’
At the risk of losing credit for charm, a clan war emerged mere seconds after my reenactment of the crime. A local ‘businessman’ known as Pimpy Joe came barreling down on the camera crew with a switchblade and a stereotypical pimp cane. While he was busy attempting to stab Craig the college dropout trying to make his way up in the news business as a camera jockey, I managed to slap the cane from this entrepreneur’s grip and smoothly wield it into the side of his head. Luckily for Craig, I broke Pimpy Joe’s nose in a solid enough manner to drop him to the ground in one blow as Craig turned into a track star and, soon after, into a NASCAR driver as he sped away Tammy-less with the news van. Suddenly having a new best friend, we scampered off around the corner and up the magnificent retro-slummy suites of the Superior Edgemore. So a typical Saturday night watching the local theater in my district known as prostitution central on the corner of stabby avenue turned into a magical first date combined with a quite prosperous shopping trip.
I can’t say I was surprised at Tammy’s reaction to my lifestyle. She made the jobless assumption that I would not live like this by choice. As much as I do enjoy the incognito life of a wreck I currently had on display, I had also noticed a certain bit of loneliness seeping into my artsy efforts. So it was Tammy that first learned the secret I’ve been living. A secret $25,000 in value and rising as the weeks go on was laid bare in the scum build up I live in these days. I suppose you would like to know what I told her. I assume you might be inquisitive upon learning my net value was last measured around $45 billion dollars. Quite possibly you may even be wondering why I might be inclined to live in such a dangerous place regardless of what I must be hiding from out in the downtown stock trading and business buying world of New York City. All I can say is people do what they need to do. A change from home owner life to shanty town USA has it’s drawbacks. The old theatre I used to watch had to be replaced by something less conspicuous and any additional monetary involvement in this community is bound to make me a target for the local ‘tax collectors.’ Nobody goes from Park Avenue to parking here means you don’t expect to dive out of here again without a large reason and damned if a murder and $35 million isn’t just enough for an organization with such a simple name. This is how IBM changed my life…
Strange things happen on the East side after 4am. Strange for the day to day 5 to 9ers, but commonplace for the groin rockers and the cane wielding power brokers of Superior and Lehigh. They’ve got style, they’ve got poise and they’ve got just the lady for you for only $50 an hour. More gold can be found in smiles in this neighborhood than in the jewelry district, and yet these men in power here do it all with little piggies freezing out in the cold night air. It was a standard knife fight over Canadian coins to pay for American love as I phrased it for the police later that same night or earlier that morning as it may be. I’ve never been one to tout celebrity, but the fact that I was quoted in the newspaper gave me certain air of pride that I never thought I would be ought to own. Despite references to a “dirt clad vagrant’ as the comment wielding participant in the conversation, I still find pride in the brush with glory know as Tammy Stanton of Channel 5’s action news. I think she may have been somewhat smitten with me had it not been for the sake of knowing I was much less dangerous than the glut of ex-cons living in the vicinity. Maybe it was my charismatic smile or the fact that may ragged clothing gave no place for my to hide a weapon, but, 10 minutes later, she was huddled in my apartment with me. Every good story leaves out tidbits to explain a person’s motivation. Why do I live in this area of town? What exactly is this new post for my bed? Why would an attractive news reporter find herself in the apartment of person she would, hours later, describe as a ‘dirt clad vagrant?’
At the risk of losing credit for charm, a clan war emerged mere seconds after my reenactment of the crime. A local ‘businessman’ known as Pimpy Joe came barreling down on the camera crew with a switchblade and a stereotypical pimp cane. While he was busy attempting to stab Craig the college dropout trying to make his way up in the news business as a camera jockey, I managed to slap the cane from this entrepreneur’s grip and smoothly wield it into the side of his head. Luckily for Craig, I broke Pimpy Joe’s nose in a solid enough manner to drop him to the ground in one blow as Craig turned into a track star and, soon after, into a NASCAR driver as he sped away Tammy-less with the news van. Suddenly having a new best friend, we scampered off around the corner and up the magnificent retro-slummy suites of the Superior Edgemore. So a typical Saturday night watching the local theater in my district known as prostitution central on the corner of stabby avenue turned into a magical first date combined with a quite prosperous shopping trip.
I can’t say I was surprised at Tammy’s reaction to my lifestyle. She made the jobless assumption that I would not live like this by choice. As much as I do enjoy the incognito life of a wreck I currently had on display, I had also noticed a certain bit of loneliness seeping into my artsy efforts. So it was Tammy that first learned the secret I’ve been living. A secret $25,000 in value and rising as the weeks go on was laid bare in the scum build up I live in these days. I suppose you would like to know what I told her. I assume you might be inquisitive upon learning my net value was last measured around $45 billion dollars. Quite possibly you may even be wondering why I might be inclined to live in such a dangerous place regardless of what I must be hiding from out in the downtown stock trading and business buying world of New York City. All I can say is people do what they need to do. A change from home owner life to shanty town USA has it’s drawbacks. The old theatre I used to watch had to be replaced by something less conspicuous and any additional monetary involvement in this community is bound to make me a target for the local ‘tax collectors.’ Nobody goes from Park Avenue to parking here means you don’t expect to dive out of here again without a large reason and damned if a murder and $35 million isn’t just enough for an organization with such a simple name. This is how IBM changed my life…
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