Two

So, I live in El Barrio.

    The Brown people and me.

Actually, there are other White people. The Fringe Folks. The screwed, blued, and tattooed.

They dress strange and you wonder where the hell it is they work. In my old life I used to think I

was better off than these people. Not anymore. Now they are my peers. I run into them at the

laundromat next door or in the courtyard of my complex. They are okay, but one of the things I

can’t get used to is the trash that’s everywhere. I don’t understand why all the streets are littered

with every object imaginable: Used condoms, syringes, cereal boxes, newspapers. And dog crap.

I have to watch where I’m walking so I don’t step in dog crap. I do like my neighbors. It’s almost a sin

in their religion to get divorced. The roles are still very traditional. Dad works and Mom raises the kids

 and keeps house. I don’t get it when white people say they are taking our jobs. What jobs? Day labor?

 Bussing tables and washing dishes? Laying tar roofs?

     I know there are Brown people who own businesses and who are in politics and who are rich.

But not around me.

                                                                      #

     AMERIKKA!

     The above is written in mustard on the inside of a bus shelter and as I’m reading it a homeless

 man staggers by singing a Christmas carol. You would think if you wanted your message to last

you would write with something other than mustard. Oh well, I guess you use what you have.

     I’ve been doing a lot of walking the last year. Sometimes late at night I walk by the area near

my complex where the prostitutes are.

     The prostitutes near me are in pretty bad shape. They are older. They look like they’ve been

beat up many times. They look like the homeless women you see sometimes sitting on the

sidewalk with a dirty child and a sign in their laps.

     The prostitutes near me stand on the corner and sway and mumble to themselves. The tricks

they turn are usually in doorways or behind parked cars. Their pimps are young Brown men. You

can see them on the other side of the street with their hands deep in the pockets of their football

parkas.

     There is a place near this area that I think is a home for the prostitutes. Either that or a drug

 house. It’s basically a garage that’s been converted. I’ve seen people go up and knock on the

door. A woman’s voice answers, and the conversation is done through the mail slot. When I walk

by late at night it sounds like there are many people inside. There is always music playing so you

can’t really tell what is going on. The police must know about this place. My guess is that this

place is no big deal to them. Either that or somebody is paying somebody off.

     Not like that ever happens.

     The New Rich Kids are moving in, and I can’t figure out why.

     I personally know people who come from families with millions. I really do. And the weird

thing is they aren’t pretentious at all. When they are hanging out with the friends of friends I

know them through they adapt to their surroundings and will kick off their shoes and sit down on

the floor right next to the cat box. The problem with the New Rich Kids is that they don’t adapt.

They stand out. They drive around the neighborhood in their convertibles with the top down

talking on their cell phones oblivious to the fact that no one wants them here. I guess their

motive is to buy low and sell high.

     There is also a lot of building going on here. Live/Workspaces are all the rage. Old

warehouses are being converted for habitation. More cement. I would like to see someone build

another park around here because there is only one that I know of, and that park is totally lame.

     The park where I live is divided into sections. The outside perimeter where the cement pic-nic

tables and metal trash cans are is where the homeless people sit or camp out. There is an asphalt

trail that weaves its way through them where the dogwalkers from the nearby animal shelter do

their thing.

     I was in training to be a dogwalker, but it didn’t last long. The way of introducing volunteers

into their program was just like an animal behavior modification program. You had to keep

coming back every week for a short amount of time to learn more about the system. It was way

too controlling for me. I was able to interact with the dogs after my first session and could handle

even the wild ones on a leash.

     The facility itself is quite impressive, in fact it’s well known for the high quality of care the

animals receive. The dogs are kept in a neighboring kennel and get assigned a number that

equals the level of goodness or ease they have interacting with people. The lower the number the

more well behaved they are. If I was a dog there, I would be a six, somewhat in the middle, not

unruly, but not submissive either.

     The room’s where the animals are kept are nicer than some apartments I’ve been in. They

have furniture and TVs. The cat’s TVs show videos of birds and squirrels. The dog’s TVs show

videos of families and other dogs.

     On my last day there I was visiting with the dogs, going into their rooms and petting and

taking to them. There was a two-year-old Cocker Spaniel and we bonded instantly. It was true

love, and it broke my heart. I wanted to carry him to the front desk, fill out the papers, and take

him home. But I can’t have a dog where I live. So, I just spent as much time with him as I could.

When I had to go on my walk, I let him lick my face.

     About fifteen minutes later a very nice yellow woman adopted the Cocker Spaniel. I smiled at

the people I was working with and made small talk with them as we walked the dogs around the

 homeless people in the park. When my shift was over, I signed out, put my volunteer apron in

 the laundry basket and knew I would not be back.

     The main section of the park is a soccer field surrounded by a high chain link fence. The field

is torn and muddy. The Brown people play soccer there. It’s empty during the week except for

the occasional pick-up game with neighborhood folks wearing street clothes. On Saturday the

little league teams play there and on Sunday after church the men play. Some spectators stand

outside the fence drinking beer and listening to loud music from their car stereos. Sometimes

they set up a small grill in the parking lot and barbeque.

     You know what I’d like to see on that field? A soccer game with the homeless people. I’m

 sure I’d have to be the one to put the wheels in motion. I’d have to take the day off from work,

 but I think it would be worth it. I’d wear some sporty clothes, maybe even buy a whistle and

 wear it around my neck and approach each homeless person and convince them to play. We

 would push their shopping carts on to the field and put them along the sidelines so they could

 keep an eye on their stuff, and then divide into two teams. It might be too much for them to run

 the entire field. We could always play using half of the field. It would be fun for them. Exercise

 is always good. I know they get a lot of exercise with all the walking they do, but still, they

 might like the feeling of competition. It might be hard to console the losers. Hopefully there

 would be graceful winners. Afterwards I would go to the grocery store across the street and buy

 a gallon of orange juice and some paper cups while they cooled down. I would even buy some

 of the chocolate chip cookies they make in the bakery in the grocery store. I could give each of

 them a cookie and some orange juice. I could even have some certificates printed for them like

 the ones you get at work for doing something the boss wants to be recognized for recognizing

 you for. The only thing is they really wouldn’t have any use for a certificate if achievement. It’s

 not like they have anywhere they could display them.

Three

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I do actually live in one of the most beautiful cities in

 the country. My favorite places all involve the ocean. I like to go onto the piers and look at the

 water. The piers are for the ferries that bring people over to work. If I go out onto them a

 security guard will come and roust me. I always ignore the guards and wait until they are

 standing right next to me. Then I get up and go. Every once in a while, I’ll get lucky and be able

 to sit on the pier without being bothered. I’ll sit right on the edge and rise and fall with the

 waves, listening to the creaking of the planks and squawking of the gulls. I always imagine

 jumping into the bay.

     My most favorite spot in the city is Ocean Beach. I love the Pacific. My ex and I stayed in a

 motel right next to it when we first arrived. We saw two cranes at the beach on our first night

 here. I thought it was a good omen. It wasn’t.

     If I can I’ll take the Muni train to the ocean and walk by that motel. Next door there is a

 coffee shop that had an open mike night. Once this old bearded white guy drug in this huge

 amplifier and played a short Blues set with an electric guitar. I remember he did one original

 song about wine, wine, wine, pass down that bottle of wine. He was the best act that night.

 There was also a young white girl who played the guitar and sang. Her biggest supporter was

 her mom. All the other performers read poetry.

     I’ll walk past those places, across the Great Highway, down the sand dunes, and out to the

 ocean.

     One of the things I’ve come to notice about living in the city is that in public you are never

 alone. Not even at the beach. No matter what time of day or night I come out here there are

 always people around. And you can’t walk out into the water, bend over and cup your hands to

 catch the surf, let it go, and then bring your hands to your mouth to taste the sea salt without

 knowing someone can see you. But I do it anyway.

#

     It’s Sunday evening and the Brown children are playing in the courtyard. It’s basically a

 cement area where all the stairways lead and there are signs that say, “No Playing In Courtyard”

 and “No Jugar En La Yarda.” It drives my roommate crazy when the kids are out there, but I

 like it. It’s nice having children around. It makes the place feel homey. Right now, they are

 rollerblading and throwing water balloons. I had to step over the paper plates of food because

 they set them on the steps.

#

     I have very detailed fantasies.

     One of them has me in the subway waiting for the train. I’m standing at the edge of the

 platform right on the yellow plastic raised area they’ve put down as a safety zone, so you know

 when you are too close to the edge. I stand at the rear of the platform near the entrance of the

 tunnel and listen for the train. I hear it and step to the edge. I look straight down the tunnel and

 watch the light on the train. You can see the light from quite a way away. It looks like it’s not

 moving at all for what seems like a long time. I watch the light grow bigger and bigger and the

 wind from the train rustles my clothes and blows my hair. And just as the train is about to enter

 the station, I jump off the platform right onto the tracks.

#

     When I was in Junior High or High School, I can’t remember which, I was at this outdoor

 education center in a forest somewhere in the mountains. I don’t know why. Probably for some

 class I was taking so I wouldn’t have to take an academically challenging class even though I

 should have taken the academically challenging classes because all the girls I liked were the

 smart girls in those classes. They were the ones in the yearbook that were the presidents of all

 those student organizations.

     Anyway, I was in the mountains for some reason, and we had to persevere over the obstacles

 in the place. We climbed a wall by using only arm strength moving wooden pegs in and out of

 holes straining to get up and over the wall. We stood on a tree stump and fell backwards while

 our partner caught us. I remember they said the reason for this exercise was to build trust. And

 we walked along this rope that you would usually climb in PE class only this time it extended

 between two trees.

     We had to climb up a tree, step out onto a wooden plank, then make our way along this rope. I

 held out my arms and slowly inched across the rope while it jerked and swayed. The reason I’m

 mentioning this is because today is Monday. And I don’t know about most of you, but that is

 what Mondays are like for me.

Four

E called me. I was at work, and I checked my voicemail. She tried to sound nonchalant, But I

 could hear a definite nervousness in her voice. I was delighted and called her after ten o clock

 like she said to.

     We talked about this and that. She was being very coy and vague about the simplest questions

 like what she did for work. She agreed to go out but wanted me to write her first. She lives down

 the Peninsula about twenty miles south, just past the airport.

     I wrote her. I don’t remember what I put. I think it was simple things like my job, hobbies,

 everyday stuff. She wrote back that she was seeing a guy in Long Beach and detailed her many

 recent travels. I didn’t really mind that she was seeing someone else because I barely knew her.

 She also wrote that she was a Gemini. I’ve never put too much credibility in astrology because it

 seems so frivolous, but I did pick-up one of those two-inch horoscope books that they have at

 the grocery store checkouts for about a dollar and read up on her supposed characteristics. And

 the weird thing was it was she a classic example of her sign, almost like she had been studying

 for the role.

     I rented a car for our first date because I don’t have one anymore. For the first time in my life,

 I am without car. I really don’t feel like an American to tell you the truth. I keep waiting for

 some group of men to kick in my door early in the morning and drag me off for some kind of

 questioning. Thank God I have a television. If I do get hauled in, I think that will help.

     I arrived at E’s house and was greeted by a note in the door jamb that instructed me to have a

 seat on the front porch and wait. She was running a little late. The note was written on the back

 of a business card. The card noted a woman with the same last name as E and I assumed that it

 belonged to her mom.

     Eventually E made her grand entrance, swooping onto the porch and saying something like

 she hoped I hadn’t been waiting long. We looked each other over. It had been a while since we

 had last seen one another. We approved. She wore a pair of blue-jean overalls and a simple

 white T shirt, and it showed her figure in a nice way.

     I drove into the city, and we ate dinner at an Italian restaurant in North Beach. The waiter

 complimented me on my shirt prompting E to inquire how she looked to the waiter, to which he

 replied “Marvelous.” We ate and talked quite easily and then headed out of the city over the Bay

 Bridge towards Oakland.

     We were going to see a musical somewhere in the hills of the East Bay. The directions she

 had were somewhat vague and it was truly miraculous that we found the place. But, after

 playing our hunches, backtracking, stopping, getting directions, and making many illegal

 maneuvers, we reached our destination. It was an outdoor amphitheater. We parked among the

 trees in a lower lot and joined the others as they headed up towards the box office. The majority

 of the people going to see the show were old white people who you could tell did not live in the

 city because of their clothes. They weren’t sharp looking. They were comfortable and faded. I

 think I was actually the only person wearing black.

     E got our tickets from will call and we went in, passing a table with some items to be raffled,

 that for the life of me I can’t recall. I’m sure they were homey suburban things like all-natural

 whole grain pasta makers or non-fluorocarboned hand operated vegetable slicers. Very

 Californian.

     The refreshment stand seemed like it was made by someone in the stage crew. It was wooden

 and quite simple like the items it offered for sale: Lemon Aid, wine, jellybeans, and non-oiled

 and unsalted hot air popped popcorn.

     We watched the show and E told me a friend of hers was one of the dancers.

     After the show E wanted to go backstage and see her friend. We stepped over a sign on a

 chain that read “Backstage Do Not Enter” and followed the cement steps down. We found the

 Black actors mingling and laughing, looking joyous and exhausted from their performance. We

 sat on a sofa next to one of the actresses who played a bar person and I struck up a conversation

 with her regarding her elaborate costume jewelry. She had yet to change into her street clothes

 and still had on her costume and stage make up. I don’t know how many of you have ever talked

 to someone after they have performed on stage, but the makeup that they have to wear is applied

 quite heavily. I guess it’s because they have to look perfect to people from far away.

     The Black actress I was talking to gave me several items of her costume jewelry to try on

 which I did. E didn’t approve and made it known to me by that certain look. I just turned away

 from her and continued with my fashion show, thanking the Black actress before E and I got up

 off the sofa and searched the rest of the backstage area for her friend. We found him in front of

 the main office of the theatre. E’s friend was talking with the Black man who was the lead in the

 play and they both gave us a hug when we said hello.

     We all chatted for a while about how good the show was, and they told us the problems with

 the stage and the problems with the other performers and eventually we said goodbye and made

 our way back to the rental car among the trees. I was dragging by this time and sat on the hood

 of the car and smoked a cigarette while E touched up her face.

     On the way down the winding back roads of the Oakland hills E said that perhaps I should

 slow down so I took both my hands off the wheel and asked her if she would like to drive. She

 grabbed onto the steering wheel and guided the car around several turns while I kept my foot on

 the accelerator. We were a team.

     After about a quarter mile of driving like this E asked me to take the wheel again. I did and

 she didn’t complain about my driving the rest of the way.

     As we got into her neck of the woods, she said we should have a drink at a bar in her town. It

 was about eleven o’ clock on a Sunday night and the bar was actually the only place we could

 go because everything else was closed.

     We went in and took a table next to the dart board and tried throwing darts. I couldn’t

 remember how to score them. After a few tosses we sat, and she asked if I wanted to thumb

 wrestle. She said she had many brothers and that she was pretty good at it. I still beat her two

 out of three tries. After my second victory she gave a girlish shriek and slapped my hand

 flashing her intense eyes at me in a playfully submissive way. My heart dropped. I wanted to

 kiss her. I didn’t. We just looked at each other smiling.

     I got us each a beer and we ended up talking about this and that when all of a sudden, she got

 defensive and demanded I justify my position on why I thought it was a good idea to let the Red

 people build gambling casinos on their land. To tell you the truth I didn’t even know what it was

 we were talking about because all I was doing was stealing looks at her chest and losing myself

 in her intense green eyes. But she was adamant that I justify the statement I had apparently made

 about the Red people. I said from what I knew about the subject it seemed like they had little if

 no means of income on the reservations and that the casinos would at least give them some

 opportunity to earn a living, to which she replied, what about the mafia and it wasn’t right that

 the taxpayers should pay for it.

     As we were leaving, she told me how in high school her boyfriends would drive these sleepy

 streets blasting their stereos while she would drive these sleepy streets blasting their stereos

 while she would lounge in the passenger seat with her legs out the window.

     On the short drive to her house, I turned on the radio, turned up the volume, and E dangled

 her legs out the window swinging her bare feet to the beat.

     I killed the music and stopped in front of her house asking her for a kiss. She said not on a

 first date and put on her shoes saying to call her in a couple of days.

     Just like that she was gone, and I was miserable.

     Once I got home and, in my room, I realized I really, really, felt bad. I felt weak. I felt almost

 dope sick like I was going through some sort of withdrawal. I sat on my bed and anticipated my

 call to her in a couple of days. I could hardly wait. I needed my fix.

 

Five

This morning while I was sitting at the bus stop between two rough looking guys, I noticed

 that the mustard message I mentioned earlier was starting to flake and peel. The guy on my right

 was an old Yellow man. He wore leather loafers that were almost completely worn out and

 brown fast food looking dirty polyester slacks. Both his eyes were badly swollen. Hopefully, he

 was on his way to the doctor. The guy on my left was White, bearded, and his mouth was sunk

 in like he was missing a lot of teeth. His hair was long and greasy. He was wearing sneakers that

 originally were white but were now soiled. He wore no socks and dirty blue jeans. He carried a

 wooden cane that was splintered at the handle, so he had a rubber band to keep it together.

 When the bus came, I saw him get up and move okay. He really didn’t need the cane to walk. I

 guess he had it for protection.

     I’m going to stary carrying a chainsaw and say I’m a lumberjack.

     The thing these guys and I had in common were the jackets we were wearing. We all had on

 brown jackets. The kind you wear casually with big pockets that button on the front. The main

 differences in the jackets were each one’s degree of dirtiness, but for the most part, the style was

 the same. I wish I had a picture of the three of us sitting side by side at the bus stop.

#

     I’m in the lunchroom now at my job. It’s after work and I don’t want to go right home

 because my roommate is there. She took the day off and I really don’t want to talk to anyone.

 She’s nice enough, it’s just that I like to be by myself after work. I don’t think having a

 roommate is natural. If you look in The Bible, I bet there isn’t anyone who were roommates.

 Sharing a place with a family member is one thing, but there is just something odd about living

 with someone you aren’t related to because there will always be some kind of dynamic that will

 develop. With my roommate and me it’s a brother and sister thing.

     I decide to go to this theatre by my work that shows month old movies.  I have about an hour

 to kill, and I want to wait for the getting off the job people traffic to thin out before heading

 home. I give the pretty Yellow girl working the box office six times what the movie I’m going

 to see is worth and step inside.

     The interior is dreary. The carpeting is ugly. Its orange patterned and it covers the entire

 upstairs and downstairs. The Black man who takes my ticket tells me the bathrooms are

 downstairs and my movie is upstairs. I go up, pass the video games and unattended snack bar,

 noting that there are candies on display. I don’t think the snack bar is supposed to be self serve. I

 leave it alone and go inside the theatre. There are credits rolling and I’m thinking maybe I

 misunderstood the Black man who took my ticket because there are about ten minutes to go

 before my movie starts. I go back downstairs, but the ticket man is gone. I ask the older Yellow

 man working as a security guard where my movie is and he assures me that it’s upstairs. I thank

 him and walk up the escalator that isn’t working, deciding that it might be bad luck to walk on

 too much orange, past the non-self-serving unattended snack bar, and into the theatre that will be

 showing my movie.

     Inside there are other people, only I think they have more time to kill. They look like they

 have paid the before five o’clock amount to get in. In fact, I would guess that a few of them

 have been here since the first show and will be staying until the last.

     I sit down in the middle chair of the last row in front of the wall where the projector is. There

 is a metal railing in front of me and I am just barely able to see over it. I move to the left rear

 section and sit in the middle seat of the last row.

     These seats are easily the most uncomfortable movie theatre seats I have ever sat in. They

 have some kind of orange padding; but they are so smashed down from accommodating

 peoples’ behinds that they might as well be cinder blocks. They have wooden arm rests. The one

 on my right side is loose. The backs are also wooden and the back to my left has some gang

 words written in permanent magic marker. If any of you have tried to read gang writing you’ve

 probably come to realize that you can’t unless I guess you are actually in a gang. Gang writing

 looks like an ancient alphabet to me, or some kind of hieroglyphics. I wonder if each gang has

 their own written language. I’ll grab a tagger the next time I see one autographing the bus roof

 and ask him.

     There are three other people in my section besides myself and they are all Black. There is a

 man and woman who appear to be on a date and a young man wearing a puffy down filled

 jacket. He is wearing a baseball cap with the brim extending over his left ear.

     The movie is about vampires, and it is pretty stupid. Of course, the vampires are way cooler

 than the heroes that are trying to kill them. It wouldn’t be too bad being a vampire. I mean, at

 least you’d get to live forever. The only thing is it might be kind of hard to get used to drinking

 blood.

#

     Eternity

     Dawnless Hell

     Earths Core

     666

     This is written in magic maker on the piece of plywood that is serving as one of the windows

 to the lobby level entrance of the building where I work. If I didn’t know better, I would

 consider it a bad sign, but I actually like my job.

     I’ve worked at a lot of different places since I got here. My first job was an inside sales job. I

 can’t remember if I actually thought that job was some kind of new start. I probably did. Every

 new thing I find myself falling into I think is the beginning of something great. But it usually

 only turns out to be a stopover. A weird rest area while things keep shifting and I end up

 someplace that really does have potential.

     The main thing I noticed on the way to my first job here was the lack of trees. There are some

 trees, but it is obvious that the city was here first, and they just added them later by

 jackhammering holes in the sidewalk and putting them in. My job was to data entry product

 orders into the computer system and listen to the salesmen on the phone so I could learn how to

 sell. The salesmen where all White, in fact everybody at this place was White. The salesmen

 were musicians. This was their day job. One guy played keyboards in a swing-type band. His

 band would sometimes give performances in convalescence homes. He said the audience didn’t

 applaud they just shook their IV stands. Another guy was a drummer who recorded and arranged

 songs at home using the computer music software we sold. He was nice enough. He was a tall

 skinny guy with glasses and curly hair. The last sales guy was a Loner. He had long blonde hair

 and a beard. He seemed older than he was. He also seemed very afraid. I see him at concerts all

 the time. I remember his name, but I never say hello because I know he wouldn’t remember me.

     The office manager was this psychotic witch with stringy black hair who played bass in some

 small-time outfit I never heard of. She would verbally abuse me. At first it seemed unreal. No

 one had ever spoken to me the way she did. She was apparently unhappy with my job progress

 even though me and my two bosses seemed to think I was doing fine. I quit very suddenly

 without giving notice.

#

     I have too many numbers assigned to me and sometimes it’s confusing having them all. It

 takes thirteen numbers to access my voicemail at work, nine for my social security number, six

 for my date of birth, and four for my personal identification number that allows me to get cash

 from an ATM. Even though my PIN is the least number of digits, it’s the one I have the hardest

 time remembering because I just kept the one they assigned me. I was at the grocery store using

 my debit card to try to pay and I could not remember my PIN. I didn’t have enough cash on

 hand or my credit card. The woman working the register was very nice. I think she could see

 that I was genuinely confused and allowed me to try again three times before I finally got it

 right. The other people in line were also nice. They didn’t seem frustrated or impatient. It was so

 strange. Not at all like you’d expect.

#

     Sometimes I feel like I’m actually glowing. Seriously. It’s like I’m one of those neon light

 sticks that they sell at nightclubs and concerts that you crack, shake, and then they glow. I have

 this uncomfortable awareness of myself that is almost maddening. And other people appear very

 intense to me. Almost exaggerated. I hope this goes away. I don’t ever remember feeling this

 way. Not even when I was single before.

Six

It’s an hour past my bedtime on a Thursday night and I’m sitting on the outer ledge that

 surrounds the dance floor of this Rock and Roll club. The first of three bands is playing. They

 are a Surf/Punk band from Ft. Wayne Indiana. I don’t know how much surfing one actually gets

 to do in Indiana, my guess is not very much, but they are a decent band. The key to any group is

 a solid rhythm core. Bass and drums. This outfit not only has an outstanding drummer, but a

 very tight bassist. The front person is the guitar player, a stout, mini-skirted, White young

 woman with short dyed-blonde hair. She’s a very good guitar player, but I’m watching her legs.

 I’m specifically noticing the inside of her thighs. They look creamy smooth.

     The dance floor is circled by day glow neon portraits of a woman with exposed breasts. At the

 rear of the dance floor is the booth where the person running the sound board is sitting. A young

 Black woman is running the boards tonight. She comes bolting out of her area through the

 crowd to re position the bassist’s mike stand to stop the microphone from feeding back. I

 thought it sounded good. It reminded me of someone doing bird calls.

     Before the Surf/Punk band from Indiana began their set there were two lovely large ladies

dancing on the bar. I chose the place I’m sitting so I could watch the lovelier of the two ladies.

 She was also a young Black woman. She wore a long black wig and leather short shorts. Most of

 the time she seemed bored, merely swaying to the music. I even caught her looking at her watch.

 But a few times she seemed to be enjoying the attention and her dancing showed that as she

 stretched her arms over her head and grinded with a grin.

     The first band just finished their last song, and the DJ is announcing that there will be a peep

 show at the rear of the club. It costs a dollar. I get in line with the others and make small talk

 with the white dwarf who was photographing the Surf/Punk band from Indiana. He says his

 flash wasn’t working. He doubts that the photos will come out which is a shame because I

 would have given him my information so he could send me photos of the guitar player.

     A White large lady with much make up and a leopard skin jacket takes my dollar and I follow

 everyone into the back room. It’s small, and once everyone is inside it’s a tight squeeze. The

 interior is red velvet. A fake Yellow man introduces two Geishas. They are all Geishaed up and

 circle the audience collecting dollar bills in their bosoms. Both Geishas are quite cute.

     After they circle, they go onto the stage, and one steps into a bucket and acts like she’s

 smashing whatever it is one smashes to make Sake while one kneels before the bucket. The fake

 Yellow man orders people to pay a dollar for a cup of the freshly made Sake. A few men go to

 the front, pay a dollar, and the Geisha kneeling scoops out Sake from the bucket and give it to

 the men who down it.

     One of the men tells me it’s actually grape juice while I try to ignore the horribly cute music

 playing in the background. The fake yellow man is angry that more people aren’t buying the

Sake and the lady who took our dollars tells us to pay up or the show’s over. People begin

leaving and the lady announces that we can get a photo with the Geishas for three dollars.

 People keep leaving and I feel bad for the Geishas. If people had bought more sake who knows

 what would have happened. Me and this other White guy stick around a get our picture taken.

     I have the photo if any of you want to see it sometime.