homeless observation

A crushing glow, a heavy wet light, I sheild my eyes in the sudden
bright.  As fast as it came it’s goes, now a thundering hiss of
blades, a chopper cruising bent low with speed.  It’s passing  marked
by a thin loudness, a recorded whisper in full volume.  Silent now
save the sound of voices, beneath the darkness.  Why the light combed
here, at the edge, escapes me.  Here there is nothing, here life sits
crowded and alone.  This black corner is crowded with half smoked
cigarettes, sick smelling boots, human effluence submerged in mud.
Viewed with a disquieting double-take, perceived in guilty shrug, most
shuffle quickly on, back towards the light.

plane waiting

Grabbed the tab and fled from the muted cacophony; the combined noise
of low voice, clinking glass, tv and commerce.  Decently buzzed I find
the gate; a silence now, a pressing tension of expectation and fidgety
anxiety.  I fish out my ear buds, casting deep into cargo pockets to
reel in the one device.  Soon I find music pounding my ears; calm
inside, attention distracted just enough.  Beats loud enough to quell
the squirming squeal of a surly babe, the inane conversation of
scowling elders, announcements overhead; a metallic quack, all gone.
Flipping the glossy pages of comics, pulsing beat in ears dead to the
world.

Lamp post says “the walk signal is on” my head snaps up, I’m crossing.  Glancing down my mind wanders; remembering when the crossing signal was birds, chirping.  On the other side now, approaching Denver and the two story Paul Bunyan, the Max Station.  There she was; haircut with too many angles, nape of neck suggesting the geometry of a larger object.  Perched precarious with dangling limbs in an impossible position; an awkward grace, a calculated nonchallance.   I want to believe she just landed that way; crooked provocative balanced on the circular metal bike-rack.  Legs crossing she notices me as I approach, an exclamation point in body language.

“The yellow line to city center is expected to arrive in six minutes,” a disembodied female robot voice announced.  I square up with the ticket machine and I feel her watching.  As I fumble out my card I sense her movement, the chains on her jeans jangling.  The next few moments pass in a flash; a single breath, inhale…exhale.

“Hey,” she says in a small voice, I turn.  Her right hand comes up, palm down, as if to slap me five.  Too late I notice my wallet open in front of me like a book, her black-nailed hand coming down.  I barely have time to register the quiet “smeck” sound of it being stolen before she’s gone.  Across the tracks in three gawky, too-long strides.  Over the fence on the far side and out of sight before I can open my mouth to shout.  Behind me, the ticket machine spits out my card, tauntingly flashing and beeping.  Grabbing my plastic and paper I turn and smile into the sounds of the approaching train.  I had just witnessed a desperate act, however useless.  She’ll be disappointed with my cheap camo-colored bill-fold; nothing but sweaty business cards and yellowing old receipts.

*this is a work of fiction; as in I made it up, it didn’t happen.

In between songs I hear music from a nearby iPod, undulating saxaphones and trumpets bumping hips with tumbling bass lines.  Afloat in a sea of thousand mile stares,  a brief recognition in a second glance; a false summit to a subtle stretching tension.  My music breaks, again the disconnected samba sax, incoming text on the one device with uncanny timing: ping! The next verse crashes. Email in my pants again but no wifi, it can wait.  The train soldiers on, somehow perferable to the somehow different jerky charge of the bus.  Dude drops his burrito in the corner of my eye and I smell it.  He’s thinking 5 seconds but I don’t wait to see him go for it, thumbing the wheel of my board. The gritty bearings sing for concrete.  The wheels catch snugly against the window as I prop my ride up on its tiny molded plastic ledge.  I fumble my book out of my pack but don’t open it.  Images fleeting flow by through the glass as they do around me inside the trains womb-like warmth.  Sharply in my eye for just a second, then my vision slides to the next slipping scene.  Down into a passing car; steaming coffee, texting fingers.  Around to a shuffling in front of me, dude ruffles his paper.  Out to the girl on the corner, bending to retrieve her headphones dangling.  Inside now, a sound turns my head.  Lips smack, a burrito consumed with a darting glance.  Maybe I will read.

We ate a quick, early breakfast of poached eggs, croissants, charcuterie and cheese. After checking out of our room, the owner of the hotel offered to drive us to the bus station to begin the next leg of our journey. Leaving much loved Riva Del Garda was bittersweet, but we were bound for Rovereto, then Bellagio. We waited at the station for about an hour, dozing on our heavy backpacks. On the bus, we marveled at the beauty of the Italian countryside. In Rovereto, we had just enough time to grab some snacks- cappuccino, “light” coke, and a panino. The train ride to Verona was a quick and easy hour. A twenty minute lay-over and then a train to Como. When it arrived we wandered empty car after empty car looking for our seat numbers. In the very last car, which was packed, we found our seats next to an ancient nun and a smelly old lady reading the funnies. Her cell phone kept buzzing loudly as she dozed, completely oblivious. We arrived in Como around 3 pm and had beers and a package of cookies. Our final bus of the day to Bellagio left in about an hour. When it finally rolled up in the warm afternoon sun we barely got seated before the driver hit the accelerator. Riding through the city of Como, the bus loudly banging and creaking over bumpy streets, I could hear it’s roar over my ipod. I commented to Kate about how roootie-poot it felt, we soon found out why. The bus ride from Como to Bellagio is one I will remember for the rest of my life. A white-knuckle nightmare of blind corners and blaring horns. Our driver, the picture of calm in the rear-view pounded that bus around impossible corners, up narrow-assed streets, gassed it through too-tight curves and hammered it up and down steep grades. He leaned on the horn often, as if to warn oncoming cars of their two options: pull over or die. Near-miss was met by close call and again with the horn. Too-tiny streets where houses and buildings teetered over the cliff’s edge, the asphalt winded up around and over and through. I gritted my teeth and held on to the seat-back in front of me, which I then noticed had roller coaster style handles. Motorcycles passed us at regular intervals. Fucking death wish? At one point, a particularly narrow corner, road work had closed off one lane. What did our driver do? Again with the horn…but this time his trumpeting was only met with more trumpeting, of another oncoming tour bus. Screech!!! Hilarity ensues. Picture this, on one side a thirty foot rock wall, about three inches from the side of the bus. On the other, another huge bus crammed in at a weird angle between us and the guardrail, the hundred plus foot drop into Lake Como over houses and gardens. Italian men from both buses were in the road cursing and waving their arms, comically creased brows and incomprehensible shouting. Bottlenecking traffic, cars and motorcycles piled up in front and in behind, ever inching closer as the buses eeked back and forth, trying to get around each other. After about fifteen minutes of this, our driver manages to squeak out, how he didn’t scrape the rock wall is beyond me. But now you see, we were off schedule. The fifteen minutes spent maneuvering the construction zone had made us late, and our driver knew it. I don’t think he let off the gas once over the following twenty minutes, even when he slammed on the brakes to carry us careening around cars or through narrow tunnels. Arriving in Bellagio and screeching to a halt, he promptly killed the engine and jumped out, no doubt in search of a stiff drink. As I peeled my fingers out of the grooves I had created in the seat in front of me, I wanted one, too. We checked into the Hotel Bellagio, and on the third floor found our room with stunning views. After settling we wandered the tiny winding staircase streets inquiring at several eateries about dinner. In this town, apparently, dinner wasn’t served anywhere until after 7 pm. We sighed and parked our butts at a patio cafe and ordered drinks. They brought cream cheese and chive crostini and cheap chips with our beverages, we ate and watched the sun sink low in the sky. An hour or so later, we were in front of Far Out, a swank feeling restaurant with a good looking menu. Once seated, we were told service would not begin for another fifteen minutes, in which time we were completely ignored. I walked over to the bar and ordered us a couple of drinks. At our table, our server told us they didn’t serve wines by the glass, even though I just bought one at the bar. Our empty glasses stayed on the table the entire meal. We ordered our food and waited, pondering how Italian restaurants put out bread and olive oil, but no plate to dip. During our caprese salad and bruscetta, we watched a bunch of obvious looking Americans pile into the seating area. Our server, who also was also hosting, told them “Sorry, we are full.” We glanced around the empty dining room just as they had and exchanged confused looks. The group left, looking puzzled. I thought maybe the tables were reserved or something, but as the room filled up with random walk-ins I realized they certainly were. For non-Americans. They had reached American capacity. I enjoyed my Head-on Tiger Prawns and Beef Tenderloin but really wanted to stiff these assholes on gratuity. Kate wouldn’t have it. She loved her Salmon Ravioli too much. We left three euro on a fifty euro check. Back at the hotel we watched old sci-fi movies (in English yay!!) and fell asleep to the sounds of a thunderstorm.