actually reminded me of Art Alexikakis, complete with street junk circles
shadowing around his big brown eyes.
He walked down to the corner to sit on the concrete planter block that I
used to permanently park on during high school with guys EXACTLY like him to
get a dread or buy a night's worth of something or watch the skaters or trip
or bite my nails or talk to a friend or check out guys or wait for someone I
was meeting after being early as usual or writing in my 3 ring binders
without looking up at my surroundings but JUST listening. He looked right at
me while I was thinking about that planter's history and he stared directly
into my eyes, no fear or intimidation. I answered his x-ray glance with one
of my own. He became in that moment, one of those landmark people.
Another day I was walking out of London Underground with a bag of patent
leather heels towards the back alley courtyard area where kids, skaters and
potheads like to hang out near the grass. I was looking for my parking place
and he entered my vision halfway through my search right at the courtyard's
stone benches where a couple guys were on skateboards and the hanger on
girls in Docs batted their sexy, immature eyelashes at the boys with the
dope. He was sitting with another guy who looked like a rat and they sat and
smoked sulky cigarettes as I passed by in front of them.
We made eye contact first and then he announced, "You think that all I
have time for is to sit here and stare at your legs all day. " I offered him
a kind and slight smile for that one. In my car I was met with Scott Weiland
singing, "I'm not dead and I'm not for sale". I imagined beautiful Scott
Weiland in vinyl green pants singing about whatever he consistently trips
on. I found myself looking in the rearview mirror, idling for awhile, and
then finally driving home only half believing that I shouldn't go collecting
strays and sob stories and fixer-up "needs work" projects.
I look for him now whenever I stroll down town. My peripheral antennae
span the masses and sooner or later they usually find him in a quick moment
that follows a strange little beat in my gut.
I want to follow him someday and find the hole he crawls into at night. I
want to watch the girl with blue hair who hangs around him. I want to watch
them trip over then own existence into the hole predestined for them in my
head. Stumble him into my heart. Shoot him up. I would be his high, the hole
where he could live, an end to fruitless fascination. I would line his hole
with silver feathers.
I would place a poison detector and filtering system beneath his brain.
GREEDY FOR TASTE
Maya calls from Huntington Beach. I pull the phone under the covers with
me and Jack sits up.
"I have a dream for you to analyze," she says.
"It was the end of the world."