It was a big head day. Heads everywhere, all shapes and sizes. At the counter, a jet white, “Rasta,” a gnarl like an abstract sculpture clinging lopsidedly to a cloud encircled dome. Out on the sidewalk, an old woman in a red trench coat, bean shaved perfectly clean but for a single golden lock pasted out front like a misplaced fantastic blonde mustache. Passing by, a man who’s haircut directed the whole of one’s attention to the unfortunate shape of his melon. And here I am myself, a broken molar barnacled to the back of my gums. My head’s just as fucked up as the others.
We were enjoying massive lattes and sloppily executed french bistro food. I don’t like to criticize food, but I feel the need to reconcile myself with the shame of being drawn to frequent an establishment which may very well be considered, “trendy,” by a thing so tacky as an espresso drink in a bowl. It is, however, a very good latte.
The heads continued: two women in bikinis and flea market luchador masks stumbling about the sidewalk, an odd little dog with a mohawk, a rail thin old man with a purple top hat. “That’s right,” she remembered, “Fat Tuesday!” The exclamation didn’t much kick in for me, off on a heady day myself, worried about that cracked piece of junk in the center of it all.
I had gone to San Jose the night before, to see an old friend, to sit for awhile with someone I knew and trusted. His brother had been cooking, made us plates of rice and crispy tacos. We sat at the kitchen table, the same kitchen table that had always been there, crowded with family projects, bills, puzzles, take-out packaging. The kitchen table where you always had to make a space for yourself, and we all felt comfortable doing so.
We chewed quietly. An awkward crunch, felt something strange, crumbling grit, like a flavorless calcium chew. I probed about with my tongue, sifting through settling dust, bottom left molar, great fallen monolith. And in this childhood dreamland, like peanut butter and jelly in the cotton white bread of trust, I was too comforted to give it much thought. “hmm… I chipped a tooth,” I said, almost laughing, and I kept on eating.
We walked along the park, passing designer coffee stands, the man with the wooden flute, the climbing rope dome like a net for the bits and pieces of empty logic that bob around the whirlpool at the base of this drainpipe from the outside world, odds and ends swept in at well over the speed limit from the south and over the bridge, and the peninsula and the central valley and who knows where else, to puddle and collect and swirl around and through and out of our strange little neighborhood.
We crossed the turn in the river where the damned signal takes all damned day and you should always be afraid that someone might run you over. These are all of the people that have been in transit, only just in from wide opened.
An old man’s dream, the crossing guard on that corner, to rise with the sun each day and spend a moment at dawn, another at dusk, guiding the wandering souls across the river that feeds them, watching for falling debris. If only I make it to the end, orange vest ,white gloves, stop sign, happy man. Shakyamuni was a crossing guard for a few summers.
I fumbled about for the silver key. We stepped over the chipped old mosaic with the big red ‘T’ on it that must have meant something once, on through the lobby that smells always strange, sometimes like curry, usually like Nevada, and into our nest, our eye in the storm.
I began to cook as she settled into the computer, the both of us off exploring. “Make me a dentist appointment,” I called from the kitchen. “What day do you …” Suddenly from the street came a Zatarain’s beat, tinny old bayou blasts crashing through the bedroom walls. She was up and at it, always first to the excitement. I wandered in last place, settling my chin on the window sill like an old dog, always looking for the things to go on and off and just watching, waiting, and sleeping when they finally do, muzzle tucked under the blinds.
From our bedroom window we watched the impromptu jazz parade make it’s way across the parklet. The bikini-clad luchadoras hucked themselves about in enthrallment, a crowd swarming along. The girls danced and climbed on the dome net; a fellow in a fashionable hat played trombone at them provocatively. “I bet he owns his own pool cue,” she said. The crowd surged and pushed around the nets and up against the banks of the great waterfall. The crossing guard flashed then, and the mass poured across. Top hat and luchadoritas and a big brass band and families and strollers and a kid on her father’s shoulders swept right by our street-level porthole and looked me in the eyes another twist to the mass of confusion. I will never forget those wondering eyes.
The parade; it came and went. The noise on the street reverted to it’s usual fragmented passes of conversation and motor vehicles. We left the window and settled into a movie, the heater whirring, bundled up. Calm, still, tucked away.
And then, dust settling, an uncomfortable lump in my back pocket, a piece of Pecorino Romano. This game I play, to see how many items I can purchase without accepting a plastic bag from a shop clerk, and I’m always surprised by what’s in my pocket. The label was illegible, having gathered itself through in a blanket of lactic fat, gently melted under the warmth of my right ass cheek.
