Green Grownup Munch Yellow Fever I Suppose
by Ron Gluckman
The smell of left-over sunday corner nickel and dime wino lingered luxioursly between the aisles of a “hire a vet” ads and visions of Kentucky Fried souther handouts as the 12:02 stage roared its safely smelly arrival in a dazzle of vandalized green welcoming me to someone’s efficiency at the corner of supposed to be Powell and Market.
I survey the never knew Columbus new world opening little old ladies into shopping bag tight sweater legs. I search through the no good factory plated homebodies to find the really casually cool how are you.
Bleeding black mats grey in the touch of faded denim feet. Windows churn the landscapes into motion picture light shows for the Senior citizenized Sunday riders. Lured by the blaring silent radio sign I pass domesticated chinatown cheshire tourist and find-luckless lover seated beside my fantasy.
Without thought I carefully fold transfer in my most seductive K Ingleside stud finger hopeful searching I don’t care window seat strut.
She looks nervously past the Grodins other room double-knit marchers, the swirling seagull shit, the freckled soon to be thinks and heavys; the parade of faceless feet. She is hooked.
I am not ready to let her have me. I think I appear certain debating delinquency please take one muni foldouts with the caress of transfer punches I slink into the behind seat in a sexy second-hand Eddie Street manner.
She is —hoping, praying, pleasing. Will I? Will I will i she cannot move or breathe or blow it. Please, please the back of her head stares seductively at my pools of manly ivory suds.
I say nothing. Yet. Two teenagers fight over the roach remains of last past Saturday. A dry cleaned bum sips his morning Ripple. Naturally they don’t care.
In the back of a small colored boy harmonica holds playing into the tonk tonk tonk of bart future baying as he sucks away the grass smell boredom silence of the 12:02 stage.
I clear my throat.
Seconds before won over by my almost charisma, Julia (her name perhaps) rushes off into the Van Ness I can’t take it anymore farewell traffic horizon. Soon she is just a sea of Volkswagons.
I smile at the bus fumes dying plants; at the uptown sex ads; at the businessman sucking municipal fantasy into supposing low income socio-economic crime conditioning. I smile at the salty taste of my own smile.
Across the aisle I look out the mirror window back at myself. I pretend not to notice old shopping bags rustling wrinkled ladies–pretending, pretending. My tie is on straight and my lips are pursed just like the jade east commercial recommended.
I look into my eyes. Ocean beaches roll sand, waving, waving. Pidgeon seagulls salvage statue sentences from the Union Street flea market. I am back in myself at Castro Street. I am together. Besides, she really wasn’t that pretty anyway.