Month: October 2012

I waited at a third bus stop this morning. Alone, off to the side. Under shade. I sweat like a fresh cheese and it comes without effort. I waited alone for a long while until a little old woman under a pink hat and in pink sweatpants and a pink sweatshirt showed up. She sat on the bench some twenty feet away. We were both on the other side of the sidewalk, facing the trains. I checked my phone occasionally unless there was a good-looking girl up on the train platform, then I glanced up and admired. I remained in the shade. It must have been thirty minutes that way.

I’d waited at the first bus stop earlier in the morning and the bus flew by. I’d walked a few yards ahead to the next bus stop and waited again. That all was about twenty minutes. The bus came and drove me about fifteen minutes up the way. That’s where I waited some more, with the old woman.

I waited and she waited until, finally, I couldn’t keep waiting. My patience was gone. I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She turned. “Is this the 260?”

She nodded and looked ahead for a second, then turned up toward the sign and pointed. “260. Redwood Shores.”

“Oh, okay. So this is the right spot?”

She nodded again. “Redwood Shores. 260. You go to Redwood Shores?”

I nodded. She smiled and nodded, then patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, I’m alright,” I told her. “I’ll just wait here.” I waited a minute and when the bus was still not in sight, I sat down.

We sat together and watched the trains, and the birds, and the people. I had my hands folded over my stomach when I would have normally stretched out over the back of the bench. I did not want to be presumptuous. Occasionally, we turned toward the north and toward the south to look for the bus.

“Is the bus usually this late?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment as she constructed her response.

“11:05,” she said. “1 hour.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “10:05, 11:05, 12:05.”

I nodded. We were five minutes away from 11:05. “Ah, okay.”

Eventually, two buses arrived. One was marked as 260. It made the turn, dropped off passengers, and then passed us by. It was marked as NOT IN SERVICE. Another bus that was also marked as NOT IN SERVICE passed us and parked in the train station lot. I waved my hand toward it exasperatedly.

“Is that the 260?” I asked, and she nodded worrisomely.

When 11:05 arrived, I brought out my phone. I checked the transit app. It said the bus should have arrived at 10:31.

She turned toward me to see what was so urgent. I tilted the phone. “This is the app that shows the bus times. It says the bus should have been here at 10:31.” She smiled and nodded.

When 11:09 arrived, I stood. ”I’m going to go ask him if that’s the 260. I’ll be right back.” She looked on with the same worried expression.

I was nearly at the bus when the sign changed from NOT IN SERVICE to 260. I walked back to the bus stop and found the old woman and another younger woman who had just come off one of the trains. Two buses appeared, one of which was the wrong one. The old woman waved it away. When the 260 appeared she jumped for joy, and we boarded.

She patted the seat next to her on the bus, but I would take up more space than was fair to her. I sat on a seat across the aisle. Our ride was quiet and I was quickly off the bus.

“Nice to meetcha. Take care,” I said. She waved goodbye.

I needed juice, so I walked into a Jamba Juice near the bus stop and ordered two juices. I had a coupon for BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. They were out of carrot and OJ was good enough.

I walked to my workplace.

A coworker immediately asked me if I wanted a gas mask when I arrived. I initially politely declined, but then I offered a trade for one of my OJs. We traded. I took two long swigs of my remaining OJ and got to work.

I waited at a third bus stop this morning. Alone, off to the side. Under shade. I sweat like a fresh cheese and it comes without effort. I waited alone for a long while until a little old woman under a pink hat and in pink sweatpants and a pink sweatshirt showed up. She sat on the bench some twenty feet away. We were both on the other side of the sidewalk, facing the trains. I checked my phone occasionally unless there was a good-looking girl up on the train platform, then I glanced up and admired. I remained in the shade. It must have been thirty minutes that way.

I’d waited at the first bus stop earlier in the morning and the bus flew by. I’d walked a few yards ahead to the next bus stop and waited again. That all was about twenty minutes. The bus came and drove me about fifteen minutes up the way. That’s where I waited some more, with the old woman.

I waited and she waited until, finally, I couldn’t keep waiting. My patience was gone. I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She turned. “Is this the 260?”

She nodded and looked ahead for a second, then turned up toward the sign and pointed. “260. Redwood Shores.”

“Oh, okay. So this is the right spot?”

She nodded again. “Redwood Shores. 260. You go to Redwood Shores?”

I nodded. She smiled and nodded, then patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, I’m alright,” I told her. “I’ll just wait here.” I waited a minute and when the bus was still not in sight, I sat down.

We sat together and watched the trains, and the birds, and the people. I had my hands folded over my stomach when I would have normally stretched out over the back of the bench. I did not want to be presumptuous. Occasionally, we turned toward the north and toward the south to look for the bus.

“Is the bus usually this late?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment as she constructed her response.

“11:05,” she said. “1 hour.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “10:05, 11:05, 12:05.”

I nodded. We were five minutes away from 11:05. “Ah, okay.”

Eventually, two buses arrived. One was marked as 260. It made the turn, dropped off passengers, and then passed us by. It was marked as NOT IN SERVICE. Another bus that was also marked as NOT IN SERVICE passed us and parked in the train station lot. I waved my hand toward it exasperatedly.

“Is that the 260?” I asked, and she nodded worrisomely.

When 11:05 arrived, I brought out my phone. I checked the transit app. It said the bus should have arrived at 10:31.

She turned toward me to see what was so urgent. I tilted the phone. “This is the app that shows the bus times. It says the bus should have been here at 10:31.” She smiled and nodded.

When 11:09 arrived, I stood. ”I’m going to go ask him if that’s the 260. I’ll be right back.” She looked on with the same worried expression.

I was nearly at the bus when the sign changed from NOT IN SERVICE to 260. I walked back to the bus stop and found the old woman and another younger woman who had just come off one of the trains. Two buses appeared, one of which was the wrong one. The old woman waved it away. When the 260 appeared she jumped for joy, and we boarded.

She patted the seat next to her on the bus, but I would take up more space than was fair to her. I sat on a seat across the aisle. Our ride was quiet and I was quickly off the bus.

“Nice to meetcha. Take care,” I said. She waved goodbye.

I needed juice, so I walked into a Jamba Juice near the bus stop and ordered two juices. I had a coupon for BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. They were out of carrot and OJ was good enough.

I walked to my workplace.

A coworker immediately asked me if I wanted a gas mask when I arrived. I initially politely declined, but then I offered a trade for one of my OJs. We traded. I took two long swigs of my remaining OJ and got to work.

Transmission

I need to get going. My car needs to get dropped off at the transmission shop. I need to do it. I gotta go. But let me—just let me talk about this girl I saw yesterday. It was sort of warm. I was south on El Camino looking for a place that sells fresh plums. And rubber necking all over. Headed south, right. I’m driving and, brother, shoot an arrow through my heart. Fuckin’ kill me ‘cause I wanna die with this as the last thing in my head. I see this girl, right. I mean, goddamn. Just kill me. I see this girl riding her bike—old Schwinn, purple or blue—she’s riding but sort of stopped. She’s riding in some sort of figure eight. She’s looking southways through a honkin’ big pair of sunglasses. Forehead to nose sort of thing. She’s not close but I can see she’s got one of those nice noses and mouths. She’s got her lips colored some sort of red. Not real red, but like an orange-red. Goddamn, they were dick- sucking lips if I’ve ever seen them. Thirty feet away I’d say. Her hair was flat and limp-like, like at the beach. Whole thing was like being at the boardwalk when I was a teenager. This girl’s tanned as milk and coffee. Dark hair’s streaming along behind her back and she’s got on not much of anything. Black straps-type thing up top and shorts as short as the tops of her legs. Kind of girl you might say’s got bird legs and she’d get angry over it. So she’s in her figure eight and pedaling in this dreamlike way and looking so damn pretty that I got all twisted up and like nothing would be good again unless I had her. I turn around at the closest U-turn and she was gone. For one last look, you know. I get to my motel and call a girl over for a couple of hours. Still thinking of bird legs and lips. The girl I called shows up and she’s nice, but I stand up and she puts her purse down. I give her the money and she asks right here and I’m nodding, yes, here. She smiles in that fake sort of way so I close my eyes and then I’m back on the street with bird legs and it’s just us. She’s got her big sunglasses on. The sun’s shining off her shoulders and her thighs. It’s all so bright that I block out the shine and I’m just feeling the warmth of her mouth. I’m letting her come at me but then my hands are in her hair. It’s like the man is gone or something. I just want to feel all the way inside so I’m going at bird legs harder and her eyes tear up through her glasses somehow until she pushes me away to catch a breath. She’s got those shorts that she takes off but I just tell her to stay where she is. And those dick-sucking lips, brother, they shine brighter than anything when I put myself back inside and hold her flat beach hair until there’s nothing left of me but sounds I can’t conjure up outside being there with her. I think of her riding home on her bike and tell the nice girl I called that she can go. I give her more before she leaves. Anyway, I really gotta take my car to the transmission shop. I’ll see ya ‘round.

Transmission

I need to get going. My car needs to get dropped off at the transmission shop. I need to do it. I gotta go. But let me—just let me talk about this girl I saw yesterday. It was sort of warm. I was south on El Camino looking for a place that sells fresh plums. And rubber necking all over. Headed south, right. I’m driving and, brother, shoot an arrow through my heart. Fuckin’ kill me ‘cause I wanna die with this as the last thing in my head. I see this girl, right. I mean, goddamn. Just kill me. I see this girl riding her bike—old Schwinn, purple or blue—she’s riding but sort of stopped. She’s riding in some sort of figure eight. She’s looking southways through a honkin’ big pair of sunglasses. Forehead to nose sort of thing. She’s not close but I can see she’s got one of those nice noses and mouths. She’s got her lips colored some sort of red. Not real red, but like an orange-red. Goddamn, they were dick- sucking lips if I’ve ever seen them. Thirty feet away I’d say. Her hair was flat and limp-like, like at the beach. Whole thing was like being at the boardwalk when I was a teenager. This girl’s tanned as milk and coffee. Dark hair’s streaming along behind her back and she’s got on not much of anything. Black straps-type thing up top and shorts as short as the tops of her legs. Kind of girl you might say’s got bird legs and she’d get angry over it. So she’s in her figure eight and pedaling in this dreamlike way and looking so damn pretty that I got all twisted up and like nothing would be good again unless I had her. I turn around at the closest U-turn and she was gone. For one last look, you know. I get to my motel and call a girl over for a couple of hours. Still thinking of bird legs and lips. The girl I called shows up and she’s nice, but I stand up and she puts her purse down. I give her the money and she asks right here and I’m nodding, yes, here. She smiles in that fake sort of way so I close my eyes and then I’m back on the street with bird legs and it’s just us. She’s got her big sunglasses on. The sun’s shining off her shoulders and her thighs. It’s all so bright that I block out the shine and I’m just feeling the warmth of her mouth. I’m letting her come at me but then my hands are in her hair. It’s like the man is gone or something. I just want to feel all the way inside so I’m going at bird legs harder and her eyes tear up through her glasses somehow until she pushes me away to catch a breath. She’s got those shorts that she takes off but I just tell her to stay where she is. And those dick-sucking lips, brother, they shine brighter than anything when I put myself back inside and hold her flat beach hair until there’s nothing left of me but sounds I can’t conjure up outside being there with her. I think of her riding home on her bike and tell the nice girl I called that she can go. I give her more before she leaves. Anyway, I really gotta take my car to the transmission shop. I’ll see ya ‘round.

My approach to women these days is stark. There is no spectrum. The nature of the relationship may vary, but the categories are simple: fuckable/not fuckable.

Female writers fall into the first. The attraction drives me crazy.

It’s been too sunny around here.

image

My approach to women these days is stark. There is no spectrum. The nature of the relationship may vary, but the categories are simple: fuckable/not fuckable.

Female writers fall into the first. The attraction drives me crazy.

It’s been too sunny around here.

image

I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.

What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.

What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.

I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.

I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.

My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.

I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.

What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.

What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.

I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.

I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.

My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.