DREAM: With Rusty Painter delivering an order of Chinese food to an older apartment house right near the boardwalk. We walk up an intricate design of stairs to reach the top level. The door opens. It’s one of Rusty’s friends whom I’ve met once before. He’s having some kind of birthday party. There’s a lot of other people here hanging out, a different circle of friends, mostly associated with the beach punk scene. The total for the order is $30.07. He gives us 30 dollars and we head back to the car. A little annoyed he didn’t tip. I recalculate the total and realize we overcharged him. We dart back upstairs and tell him it’s only $21.56. He insists we keep the change for a tip. We decide to hang out for a bit but I’m getting antsy because it’s understood I have more orders to deliver. Rusty’s about to leave with a few buddies to get some smoothies somewhere. “Hey Rusty! We have to go soon. Are you just gonna stay here and get a ride back? Cause I got to keep going.” They leave. I wander off downstairs to the lower level. The hallways are freshly painted in sea green with street art and graffiti and cartoonish characters. Out back I discover a small back alley putt putt course. It’s rundown and not in use anymore but all of it’s still painted over in that sea green. This place seems nostalgic for me, like I’ve been here before in my younger years of dream life. I slide down a slope where the golf ball is supposed to fall down being careful to not hurt myself. I analyze the putting holes and water pipes and nooks and crannies. It’s all very distinct looking. I notice a breakfast stand open for business on the boardwalk nearby. They have mini coffee cake pies and strawberry cobblers and peach cobblers and candy and drinks. Waiting my turn—there’s other people in line. One of them mentions that it’s 9 in the morning, which doesn’t seem right to me because when I was upstairs in the apartment it was understood to be late at night.
11:40 a.m. waking up.
Breakfast: Brown Rice Bread with Margot Spread. Peaches. Orange Juice. Zinc.
Full day shift at China Wok.
These two guys waltz into the restaurant. One of them is real jolly and making jokes with my boss.
He sees me and says, “If I had the money I’d buy you a Volkswagen van.”
I respond, “Are you saying that because of the tie dye shirt I’m wearing?”
Jolly Guy: “It’s okay I used to be a hippie!”
Me: “I’m not a hippie.”
Jolly Guy: “Oh no you’re definitely not one—”
Noticing his unbuttoned Polo shirt, “But I used to wear Polo shirts like you.”
Lunch: Hard Boiled Egg Sandwich with Mayonnaise, Mustard and Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Vitamin Water.
Work continues—steady—steady.
Delivering an order way out on Birdneck and General Booth in the military housing. Driving through the neighborhood at about the speed of a walking pedestrian because if I don’t the curbs they call speed bumps might destroy my car. There’s a few middle school kids playing in the park nearby. They stare. One of the girls hollers at me, “Hey!”
Me: “Hey!”
Girl: “I love you!” [configures her hands into a heart shape]
I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? I have no choice but to return the gesture, “I love you too!”
Girl #2: “Creeper!”
Eating a Swiss Milk Chocolate Bar with Hazelnuts.
Delivering an order off West Lane except it’s down through one of the courts that I never see. The house next door stands out like a sore thumb from the all the other duplexes. Two stories high with a triangle attic level—made of dark wood. It has two ominous stone gargoyles guarding the driveway. There’s just something mysterious about it. It’s the kind of house if you were a kid you’d make up scary stories to associate it with. That’s the kind of house I want to live in.
Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein.
Workday is done.
Everyone’s in the living room. Entertained by Cops on the TV. It’s funny how easy it is for people to immediately deny responsibility for anything once a figure of authority shows up.
Stretching and doing crunches.
Chores—laundry—doing dishes—making tea.
Eating a bowl of Frosted Shredded Wheat Cereal.
My baby shows up after getting off work and having a few drinks.
Lately I’ve felt overwhelmed with the lack of time to myself. Before, I didn’t work so many hours and my schedule was freer to work on music and be creative. I’ve found it difficult with this new 40-hour work life. I hope to find a balance soon.
She’s lying there on the bed—all of a sudden the hate meter moves up like 10 notches. But it has nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s the four drinks she had earlier tonight but there’s no reasoning with her whatsoever. It’s all emotion and anger and nonsense. Feelings have their merit but they can be overwhelming. She’s stressing me out. I just want to love everyone. She wants me to be on her side. Of course I’m on your side, baby. I love you. Sometimes I disagree with you but I’m still on your side. She claims I’m a pushover just because I don’t have a war-like mindset. I’m not a pushover! I just want to love everyone. Gawd. She plays the age-old womanly game of running away or leaving on her own accord then expecting me to run after her and if I don’t, then “You don’t give a shit about me.” This goes on for the course of an hour or so…
I walk over to put the tea in the fridge then rub my hands all across her back and shoulders. I whisper over her sweet distressed little head, “Relax…”
No more words. They’ve become useless. They were since the beginning. She just settles into bed and that’s it. I snuggle with her a little bit before she falls asleep.
Sleep 4:30 a.m.
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