Washington Square San Francisco
This field of beautiful alien creatures – mingling and socializing in some indecipherable ritual. Hands and arms articulated – call and reply to the woman on the grass. One could feel threatened or excluded, but why? This soup of humans has a common pursuit – all of us are bathed by the same sunlight and breathing from the same flow. The languages they broadcast are incomprehensible, but their actions and passions are shared – of the same root.
Yesterday had too much amphetamine and today not enough. That’s the thing with amphetamine – it’s prescribed for emotional or mental issues but doesn’t play well with coffee, cigarettes and high blood pressure. A sixty three year old might find himself wondering which heartbeat is the last. That’s an uncomfortable feeling. You see a hill between you and your destination and you walk up regardless and you remember the doctor saying exercise is good for high blood pressure but you feel remiss for not mentioning the cigarettes and coffee. Well – if I make this hill I’ll quit.
Also – spending a day without it and living out the beats is always accompanied by the idea that a dose would feel good right now but it’s one in the afternoon and that commitment would fuck with tonight’s sleep.
Round and round we go.
So, put Miles on the earbuds and watch the people walk dogs in the park.
Goddamn that’s a beautiful tree. Hope it’s not my last.
Are you Markus?
Lanky, six foot, aviator shades, Brillo-pad black hair and beard. Gold beads and a skin tight white dress under a black satin frock. Ripped nylon stockings and a wool winter scarf. An apparition.
So you mean to tell me you’re not Moya’s Godfather?
I was offered IBM.
Have you seen Kit Kat? Is Kit Kat out of jail?
Tall dude wrapped in a rug.
They’re all on recess – a twenty year fucking recess.
I feel I’m on the wrong bench and perhaps these people would like their space back.
Yesterday in the evening when I arrived there was one acceptable place to sit. This in consideration of the proximity rule – that unspoken nod to personal space and decorum shared by high-tone and human substrata alike. At the other end of the bench two well dressed tech-work dudes sharing a crack pipe. Another thread common to all, and evidence that substance abuse isn’t limited to the destitute – economically speaking.
Bluetooth earpiece and a fork in one hand.
I can smell it on a woman – every time – you line up fifty of them I’ll get them all right. It’s breath – it’s on their breath – hormonal.
They take dogs into seniors homes to smell. When I was in insurance I could do it. I can smell it.
Shit. I’m gonna start cooking – we gotta get this thing started. Time we’re done it’ll be happy hour.
I had masks on the wall in that place. The girls would wear them and I’d take pictures. Had the pictures up too. Girls would come over and say hey that’s my friend – that’s her. They could tell by the lips or nose or some shit. They’d want to wear the same mask.
We’ll let it heat up for five more minutes and throw on the meat.
I told you let it sit Franco.
You know what else is really nice?
I have to go in person – before eleven.
I’ll go with you.
There’s a reason – I have to go there.
Watch the meat. I’ve got it all – I got the whole package. Boston – it’s an east coast thing.
Ohhhh – Bob Roberts.
You always get the cheap stuff man. I spend twenty five – thirty bucks.
I love her. I’ll talk to you a little later.
You can do scooters and shit – bikes – takes 10 minutes to sign up.
We have a guy in the building who does that.
I’m gonna go all blazing saddles here after I cook this.
Cause my bird makes seventy thousand a year on that.
You gotta bring proof of id – don’t say a thing about working. Not a fucking thing.
Who cares? You’re not with her.
He should not be involved in your shit.
Put em on there – you only turn them once. Lay them on. Lay them on top – roll that beautiful meat over.
You write it out – he okays it – pro persona. You have to not fucking figure out the whole world at one time.
Exactly – you know it.
She’s young – that’s got it – Jesus Christ.
So here’s how you tell – you push down with the fork – it’s gotta be squishy. It’s done.
See that rubbery – to the left. Flip it.
Put em parallel. Back and forth back and forth. That’s how you do it. Then flip em.
Is that your last piece?
Wash your hands.
Where are your slices?
I put some on there – and sauce too.
The skinny one walks by on the way to cleanup , under his breath mutters – fuck off.
She’d be interested in coming on board…
Touch – touch it with the lid. Put that raw one here?
Hey – Sandy Grossman’s one of my good friends.
I don’t know what misdemeanor avalanche they’re refugees from, or the bare room fuckings they pump out. I can’t picture their morning ablutions, but they’re in this park – the fat one pushing his half-wrapped gut out of a blue t-shirt, muttering ‘sabout ready – ‘sabout ready. And the skinny, lanky guy with puffy eyes – like the bad end of a boxing match and four days or so unshaven – they occupy a long green bench with foodstuffs and crap from one end to the other. On the pavement at their feet a one square foot propane cooker piping out baked chicken. Clatter of lid, the fat guy mutters, “It’s a good hot-shot way to do it.”
And in 30 seconds it’s all in a plastic bag and they’re walking away across the park. They stop one at a time in front of a grizzled geriatric on a bench exactly like the one they left. and bend close to pay their respects. King of bench squatters.
You’re all whores
You’re already in hell
You are whores in hell.
As soon as he sees the park ranger walking the path, screaming guy chooses silence and slips into the crowd on the sidewalk, disappears into the throng of common suicidal whores.
The sun is setting behind Russian Hill. A San Francisco night might absorb and mix us all into back-alley vapor. I’ll walk in that. It is compelling.