| snow. collecting in the road, tire tracks of turning
cars are like clover leafs, same degree of curve, same celtic cross, same
4 ways you can go, north, south, west, east, the wind is out of the north,
snow sticks to telephone poles like moss to trees. cabdriver from warmer
clime takes his time pulling away from the buck after dropping off the cashier
from fremont fresh market, the guy with what looks like a burn where a beard
would be (sarah thinks it's a birthmark), on his arm a striking blonde out
of Vogue magazine circa 1973. sarah leaves, i stay at the corner table nursing
a pint of rainier the color of piss in snow when i see krishna crossing 42nd
street on his way home from work at fremont classic, i knock on the window,
he turns around & joins me, we split a pitcher but all he does is sip,
too busy telling the story of drug-dealing Virgo friend in Chicago, 50 -
60 G a week, drives a Lexus, controls a 6-block radius, property in girlfriend's
name, surrounded by ambitious men, he can't leave his apt., nothing personal,
business is business, he owns barber shops, various establishments, looking
to go legit but you can never call it quits, the best you can hope for is
prison (it beats getting killed) where Larry Hoover & all the other top-level
boys (just below the government) live & have all their needs met: drugs,
liquor, women--can you think of anything else? the snow is heavy in the branches,
it's not going anywhere, 1 a.m., nothing left to do but flip a couple of
lucky cigarettes in the box of blue American Spirits, 1 for you, 1 for her,
the last 2. i'm alone when last call comes (get the fuck out!), turn my chair
over onto the table but the barback says don't bother & i leave a half-full
beer on the counter because i can & the snow is really piling up in the
street but instead of turning down fremont avenue home i head up on a hunch
& poke my head into swingside cafe window where brad & company are
having a little party & i take off my hat so they can see it's me &
they point to the front door (unlocked) & a hot toddy's put in my hand
as brad blows harmonica & john who's confined to his scooter & plays
trumpet in time with what's on the stereo. brad owns the place & he won't
be owned by helen, irish accent & a lisp, who grudgingly goes on up ahead
of him & he tells her 15 minutes but the look she gives him says she
knows she'll be falling asleep in an empty bed. soon it's just me & john
& brad with his box of harmonicas-- A, C, D, E, like a bunch of subway
cars, letters in circles stuck to metal rectangles but with vents instead
of windows-- & he tells me to keep time so i rattle a spoon between lip
of saucer & edge of table & he says yeah! yeah! & sings a rif
about the snow, recites mark strand, & quotes an essay he wrote 10 years
old about entering the mind of god through the cracks in his bedroom ceiling
which resembled a river system & all the earth just there for him to
play with. chet's a cook at the cafe as well as a drummer in a number of
combos & i apologize for not being him but brad says that's not bad at
least i am humble. john has a beautiful black dog he won't let anybody pet,
possessive probably since muscular dystrophy took away the use of his legs.
brad & i tell him he's being overprotective & like a military father
his regime will be tested as teenagers rebel against parents who are pointlessly
strict. it doesn't take long for keiko to prove our thesis. it's 5 &
time to walk john home in the snow (after, OK, why not, let's finish the
bottle of $60-wholesale Sauterne & smoke another smoke), he's worried
the battery in his scooter's about to go, so we tramp out in the snow taking
pictures he hopes will show how the enabling chairs he sells will go anywhere
& he does slow doughnuts in american music parking lot with keiko dragging
along tied to his handlebars & she goes completely nuts & drags him
sideways into parked cars & just about bites us when we try to restrain
her. even after he lets go she won't stop jumping on him, affecting his steering
but by this time it's all just funny & we watch him slide down driveway
into his very neat garage, not a spot of grease, & brad & i break
rosemary off a bush at 42nd & greenwood before going back & cleaning
up, a little more talk & then i'm off, already warming up, 6:30, snow
dropping off power lines & out of branches, piling up like bodies in
trenches, & sarah's already up worried about me & all i say is, hurry!
let's go! it won't last much longer, & she builds a sad wet snowman in
the street & people up on their way to work think it's funny but my feet
are soaked & i'm ready after a long good night of unexpected adventure
to go to sleep. |
|
|
