It sounds like keys rapping on an old typewriter over my head. Cars whoosh by as the colors of sunset and street lights splash to the rhythm of the rain on the shiny blacktop.
The salty air mixes with raw fish guts on the bloody cutting board that hugs the railing along the pier. Middle-aged men sporting cargo khaki shorts and forgotten concert tours printed on dirty T-shirts salute each other with frosty beer cans safely stored in trusty portable plastic coolers. Their fishing poles wiggle in the wind. Seasoned seagulls monitor the empty buckets on deck with one eye while tracking any hint of motion under the sea, with the other. Meanwhile, gangster street pigeons fight over a cold slice of cheese pizza by the bait shop. Breezy reggae bebops out of an old boombox, while an old transistor radio hisses static with its daily news. Roaming couples glance over the rails where bales of foam escort kids on colorful boogie boards back to the sandy shoreline. Their mothers lay under large summer hats on turquoise towels, nipping at strawberries and cucumber sandwiches. Next to them, chubby toddlers build sand castles for princes and their courts using red plastic shovels and blue dixie cups.
Clumsy pup. I feel your warm ribs and heartbeat under your thick pad of fur. Like a rolled up towel, fresh from the dryer, you tumble through the newly cut cool, green grass with your oversized paws.
With the inner strength of a rhinoceros, she flutters across the stage, a hummingbird twirling on a merry-go-round, her muscles are taut, her feet strangled in silk, pink handcuffs, wrapped in lace ribbons. Her dress spins like a Zoetrope as she grits her teeth behind her ivory smile. The air is crisp and clean with traces of rabbit fur, shoe polish, and soft leather. Older men and women chew tiny green mints as they “oooh” and “aaah” each time the little paper bird lands on her brittle feet. Backstage, tension grips the air. Her peers look on with anticipation and an eagerness to please. They bite their nails and pray for it to be over, so they can celebrate with a crispy wafer and a moment of solace to retch in the toilet. The orchestra crashes to a stop. A holistic gasp floods the auditorium and a rush of applause shatters the suspense.
The band on the grass wraps up it’s crescendo. Parents’ pride swells in their chests. Their knees huddled up to their chins on shiny bleachers. The midday sun spotlights the buzzing teens seated on the field. One by one, they sashay, shimmy, and cartwheel down the platform. A piece of paper curled up in their hand promises a limitless future. The inspiring words of their invited entrepreneur plays on a continuous loop, like a skipping needle on their great grandfather’s prized Victrola. A reminder of that early morning when Nana and Pop Pop were shuffled off the big boat, carrying pennies in their pockets and untarnished dreams. Fueled by the bravado of hungry animals in the wild, relentlessly pursuing the smell of success: strong coffee, freshly painted walls, shoes with new heels, pointy collared suits and a candied ham baking in the oven while toddlers bang the same plastic toys seen on TV, lit by the warm glow from the fireplace.
Clumps of hair, thick as a bird's nest plugs the drain after every shower. Is it some sickness eating away at me from the inside? Or just age peeling away the years, like the thick skin of a dimpled, waxy orange, exposing a sweet, juicy interior that anyone with a heart could fall in love with? At least the hair is baby soft, not coarse like the needles atop a Thai elephant, or a wild South American boar with gray, chipped tusks, whose days are spent dodging hungry glistening men carrying spears, wearing animal skins stretched across their genitalia. Their wives and babies cooing for their supper in treetops high among the clouds, miles above civilization. Centuries from the progress of blue smoke plumes that choke our freeways where car horns bellow as distracted drivers wax on their phones, and game boys in the backseat ignore their loved ones reminiscing of the good ol’ days when beehives, rock ‘n’ roll, frosted malted shakes and brightly lit diners packed with denim, black leather, greasy fries and cigarettes, like the ones smoked on TV featuring confident baritone ad men, ruled the world.
Night sky, bruised black and blue like a beaten boxer. Like a lone star, his eye half-closed fades under two furry eyebrow clouds furrowed in pain until the Ding! Ding! Ding! brings relief. Mom’s dinner bell - a piping hot chicken pot pie stuffed with fresh, sweet carrots plucked from grandma’s garden and a plump home-grown chicken whose boiled feathers were plucked that same afternoon. Salted, peppered, and chopped into thumb-sized cubes laid to rest in their doughy coffin for the hopeful victory dinner.
Leaning back, head craned at an uncomfortable angle, neck muscles tense and a thin paper bib clasped under my chin waiting to catch little lobster bits, until a blinding white light leaves spots under my eyelids. Up close, I smell the acrid breath of cleaning fluid and menthols as a large thumb and forefinger dig a canal around the nerves inside my gums. Not like the ones in Venice where gondoliers croon romantic ballads to couples tucked in the embrace of hypnotic cupolas and olive oils. But more like a canyon — grand, spanning its fingers across multiple States in deep root reds, oranges and yellows, like fragile autumn leaves in New Hampshire, just before being crunched by children in rubber boots, stomping with high knees or swan diving into a mountain raked by elderly neighbors, waiting for the whistle of their hot chrysanthemum tea and savory fragrance of fluffy biscuits toasting a golden amber in the oven. Wisps of steam glide along accented marble walls, polished steel instruments, and out the ivory kitchen windows.
Cold blue steel coffin plummeting to the hot earth’s core – metal shoebox carries pulsing heartbeats, laid up in hospitals. Sterile, white, smelling of bleach, quick footsteps tapping on the cool tile outside the door, red lights, blinking in the ceiling and the exit miles away – longing to be anywhere but here. At the green countryside, tiny bubbles of dew on fresh pine tree leaves, song birds conversing on elderly branches with deep grooves, scars from being beaten by angry storms, oven baked Summers and starry-eyed teenagers carving their names with Cupid’s bow and arrow launched from when Zeus oversaw the world and sweet-perfumed Greek goddesses bathed in light and honey drove the gods mad with desire, spinning the world on its axis, tossing tiny gold stars in every direction, like glittering confetti in a parade of banging drums and singing horns marching beside tall, city skyscrapers standing proud, fully concentrating on the safe transport of anxious office workers, tuned out and tuned in to their melodic white earbuds.
Bathroom mirror, circular, framed in black, hides my youth, safely stored in the grooves piercing the corners of my eyes. Like tiny hallways, they bounce off the thunderous laughter shared among college friends over icy beers, lobsters grilled over coals, refried beans, and red tomato rice. A time before careers, mortgages, and one-piece furniture. We were nimble, carefree, naive and callous to future demands. If only there was a reset button, where would this mirror be? Nestled in a Moroccan mountain village hotel dipped in blue powder? Or suspended by a wire hanger at a roadside cafe, where heaping bowls of garlic noodles and bamboo sticks float over your head and onto your plastic table?
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