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Tiny and delicate. Feathery white specs float from the cavernous black sky onto my eyelids and tongue. A light shower of powder rests on my outstretched arms. The stars above smile and encourage me to play. A plush, white virgin bed spreads across the street. It’s softer than sand and cool to the touch. Weeks from now, it will be an unwelcome nuisance. Wet slush. Cold and brown. But tonight, it’s peppermint hot chocolate, marshmallows, snug furry boots, cobwebs of tree branches silhouetted against yellow street lights, and a faint hum vibrating through the clean, crisp air, until…silence.
3:15 AM. Blinding rain smacks the windshield in waves. He belches cold sausage garlic pizza. Eyelids are heavy, his butt’s numb and the air in the cab is musty. A hot shower and hearty bowl of lentil soup is just five, no three, exits away.
It’s been one year, six months, three days, and 16 hours since my feet felt the soft sand crystals between my toes. A hot cappuccino with frothy foam tickles my upper lip like ‘what’s her name?’ in the dark port back at whatchamacallit. Anyway, that’s behind me now, and so are the cramped confines that have my spine curving like a wire hanger over this plate of garlicky noodles and red sauce. Victory! Already half gone and not a single drop on my crisp whites. Well, what to do these next five days? Motoring along the winding cliff side may be a good start.
Which came first? The rabbit or the egg? Who cares? Certainly not the rabid children stepping over one another, loading their satchels with as many multi-colored pastel eggs as they could find. Hidden behind bushes, in ceramic flower pots, under the creaky wooden stairs, tucked in the antique bird fountain, where blue jays too scared to bathe, look on bewildered, from the safety of their trees. Because today all anyone cares about are giant bunny rabbits born from milk chocolate.
My arms and legs feel heavy and eye sockets are strained. The buzz of activity outside my window is long gone. Only a faint ringing in my ears and a subtle taste of rotisserie chicken and lime hot sauce remain. Time for a steamy shower to soothe my skin, call my nerves, and bridge me toward a cool, solitary bed and a moonlit room where visions of strange characters and unpredictable events await. Until I wake in the middle of the night and tiptoe across the floorboards, careful not to disturb the neighbor downstairs. My eyes only partially open, so as not to face the real world just yet.
Beautiful, baby blue skies. Her almond skin glistens in coconut oil under the radiant sun. For a half-second too long, he lingers on the curves of her sparkling peppermint bikini, instead of the fast-approaching turn. She licks her sweet strawberry ice cream cone as his front tire plunges into the soft sand, bucking him over his handlebars, onto the sandy bed with a thud. Did she see him? Hopefully not. The little kid in the oversized helmet pedaling his trike like an escaped convict sure didn’t. Avoiding eye contact, he gets up, brushes off his knee caps and hobbles back to his trusty ride.
He sits in an old red mahogany box storing guilty confessions he’s promised to take to his grave. It suffocates him like a coffin. The anonymous voices whisper from beyond the delicate weave as he sweats privately in the dark. With every response, his ears burn. Meanwhile, outside the chamber, a warm vanilla comforts the others.
A thick blue fog burns the nostrils in a dark wood-paneled room, where men with round bellies, pregnant with success, sit in tan fine leather chairs. A large Indian guards the door, protecting the white men, as if he’s forgiven them for their atrocities - bulldozing their golden fields once abundant with grazing buffaloes and bald eagles, patiently perched on rocks, spying on field mice and silky rabbits wrapped around the neck of countesses and the glitterati posing at casino tables in Monaco, hoping to be seen by princes and sultans showcased in Arabian Nights. A time when incense snaked its way through alleyways teaming with merchants, braying donkeys, grilling beef kebabs and the promise of sacks spilling gold coins. Colored lights dance along the walls as sunlight beams through sheets of canvas, loosely hung from wooden poles zig zagging rooftops in a labyrinth of pungent spices.
My ankles are swollen. Double shifts are the worst. End up with burnt gravy on my apron every night. At least the dog likes it. Still two more hours. I can see my old Datsun under the flickering mercury lamps in the parking lot. “Order up!” There goes the bell for the thousandth time. How many rubbery pancakes can a trucker shovel into his mouth at two in the morning? Have to say though, people are their friendliest at this hour. Nursing their loneliness in sugary powdered hot chocolate and processed cubes posing as marshmallows. I guess it’s not so bad — the glitter on the stools sparkle like the silver ball at the roller disco and Henry is kind of handsome even if he is scruffy like my dog, Milo and has baseball bats for forearms. He can sure cook a mean plate of hash browns. What the — .35 cents for a tip?! You cheap bastard. I hope you get a flat on the I-9 and your wife’s sleepin’ wit da gardener, you old ape. You’re lucky it’s pourin’ out there or I’d wallop ya.
It’s wedding day, concealer on the forehead doing its best to push down the nerves, white collar chokes the windpipe, palms sweat. The tipsy guests waddle into a tight cluster and “whoosh” the bouquet of white, fluffy chrysanthemums, tied neatly in a shiny white ribbon hovers in the air for an eternity. Mouths open, eyes widen, a chorus of gasps as single women clinging to their 40’s see polaroids of their youth flash before their eyes. They charge forward like Super Bowl linebackers at the 5 yard line with 30 seconds to go. Meanwhile, young stallions in their prime casually bend over to tie their shiny, black shoes, adjust their name brand belts and steal a refill at the punch bowl. The groom looks on with a tinge of jealousy. While his friends roam free, grazing greener pastures, he sees a setting sun on the horizon and an old wrinkled cowboy long past his gunslinging days galloping off. His tired mare kicks up dust as thankful villagers wave goodbye and children in muddy clothes chase after him carrying small baskets of burnt biscuits, beef jerky, and tattered leather canteens. The glowing bride looks at him and smiles. She imagines a large suburban house, filled with laughter, fruit pies, toast, jam, and the pitter patter of little feet running across the checkered floor as nieces and nephews cannonball into the sparkling swimming pool, splashing their elders.
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