Nineteen

 

Nineteen

 

     They recently released this movie about a mass murder that everybody was talking about and

 since it was unlikely that I would actually spend the money to see it in the theatres I decided to

 check the damn book out. I went during lunch to a place near the cable cars, passing the street

 circus.

     The Chess Champs were in heavy competition. There is an area near where the tourists line

 up to ride the cable cars that The Chess Champs have claimed as their own.  They have maybe

 six discarded card tables lined in a row with beat up folding chairs on both sides facing one

 another with chess boards and pieces set up ready for play. Every table was occupied and there

 was a crowd gathered around the players watching their moves. I play kamikaze chess. I’ll move

 pieces for you to capture until the game is over.  I don’t really have the patience for chess. I like

 to play cards.

     I got to the bookstore and found the damn book about the mass murder and flipped a few

 pages finally stopping at a section dealing with girls. I couldn’t believe what I read. I closed the

 book and put it back on the shelf. I felt like I had been lying down and stood up too fast. It felt

 like the ground was moving as I made my way outside. What I read really, really bothered me.  I

 went back at lunch two more days in a row reading passages that were absolutely horrific.

     I didn’t really want to go to that bookstore on my lunch every day. I decided the only way to

 rid myself of the awful compulsion was to buy the damn book and read it at home. Because of

 the movie it was on sale so it didn’t cost as much as I thought it would.

    I like to read just before I go to sleep, but with that book I didn’t think that was a good idea. I

 read it when I got home from work before I ate dinner because I thought I might vomit if I ate

 and then read.

     I finished the damn book and now I have the most terrible thoughts running through my brain.

 When I see people now, I imagine their limbs are being cut off and their heads are on sticks.

#

     I’m sitting at the bus stop on Mission Street and Ninth in front of the guitar store waiting for it

 to be time to visit a friend who lives in a hotel across the street.

     I’m sure at least some of you have felt an earthquake before. I’ve felt many small ones,

 usually they happen when I’m sleeping. It feels like you’re on water. It’s like the ground turns

 into waves. Yesterday we had a pretty decent tremor that they said was an aftershock from a big

 earthquake that devastated Turkey. The one here happened about six in the evening. I was

 listening to the stereo in the front room and saw the tall lamp swaying in the breeze only there

 wasn’t a breeze. I immediately jumped under a doorway and waited for the motion to stop.

It's about ten to eleven and I’m tired of trying to ignore the diesel exhaust, bright sun, and all the

 ragged fellow passengers of life at this bus stop and decide to buy some guitar picks. It’s been a

 while since I’ve played. Occasionally I’ll unpack my acoustic guitar and strum some, but the last

 few times I’ve had to use a coin because I don’t have any picks.

     It’s too early for musicians to really be up and about so the guitar store isn’t crowded, which

 is pleasant. They’ve also got the music at a tolerable level. It’s a good thing I don’t have my

 credit card because the environment here is so comfortable I could see myself buying a Les Paul

 and Marshall Stack. My neighbors would really love me if I brought that home.

     The guy who helps me behind the counter is quite nice, and as he gets my picks someone calls

 my name from the other end of the counter. I look over and see a guy that I know who I haven’t

 seen in quite a while.  I go over and say hello. My ex and I used to socialize with him and his ex.

 He’s a bass player and we used to jam and have dinner together. He has many tattoos on his

 arms and the one of The Buddah peeks out from under his right shirt sleeve. I tell him now that

 I’ve got myself one, I can really appreciate the amount of time that goes in to a tattoo as detailed

 as his. He says that he’s thinking of getting his girlfriend’s name branded into his right bicep,

 but he has to research it first to make sure that it’s lasting. I think that’s kind of a big step to take

 with a girl you’re only dating. I mean, there is nothing wrong with branding her name into his

 skin, but I would wait to do it on some special anniversary, like say, you’re tenth or fifteenth.

 Go ahead and have it as a surprise.

     Look what I got you for our anniversary dear.

     I got your name branded on my body.

     I wouldn’t go for the bicep. If I was going to do it, I would have the name branded on my

 buttocks. Have you ever seen bulls with the big metal rings through their noses? They have them

 so ranchers can pull on them and get them to go where they need to go. One of my coworkers

 said that all married men have one of those rings in their noses only it is invisible.

     I notice it’s just before eleven. I give my tattooed friend my card and he does the same saying

 that he’s playing in a couple bands and will let me know when he has a gig. I tell him that would

 be cool and wish him well and then step back into the bright sun and across the street to the

 hotel where my friend lives.

     I step into the lobby and am greeted by many birds. There are several wire cages stacked on

 top of one another to my left and a colorful parrot perched out in the open at the top of them like

 a member of royalty. I can’t tell if it’s a king or queen parrot because I’m not really that familiar

 with birds. I think in general female birds tend to be less colorful for survival reasons. It’s the

 exact opposite with the sexes of our species. With us it’s males that are less colorful for survival

 reasons. The ones wearing the blue and grey suits not only survive, but financially thrive.

     I move past the birds and begin going up the stairs when the old white man working the desk

 tells me I need to register before going up. I tell him I’m not interested in getting a room I’m just

 visiting a friend. He says it doesn’t matter. I need to sign in anyway. There’s a resident standing

 in front of him negotiating his bill. I go and look at the birds and wait for him to settle his

 account. This takes some time because the resident is down on his luck. That really goes without

 saying. The people living here are lucky enough to not be on the street, but not fortunate enough

 to have a roommate or a place of their own.

     Finally, the old white man behind the counter and the resident come to some mutual payment

 agreement and I register. The old white man behind the counter asks for some identification and

 I show him my drivers license and then he asks who I’m visiting. I tell him and he has me sign

 my name on a clipboard and he writes the time next to my signature. He tells me my friend is on

 the second floor.

     I’m walking up the stairs noticing how low the ceiling is and that the furnishings consist of

 secondhand chairs. I make my way past the first floor and once I get to the second floor, I walk

 it twice before I find the right room. I knock on the door and am greeted by my friend.

     He invites me in, and I’m stunned by the smallness of the room. It’s about the size of a walk-

in closet. There is a bed and dresser. A sink in the corner. A tiny closet and a table that has a

 small refrigerator and television on top. There is a hot plate under the table on the floor.

     He shuts the door and I take two baby steps over to the bed and sit down. He works at a

 grocery store I shop at, and I see him around. He mentioned once that he has been in the city for

 over three years and doesn’t really know anyone, so I gave him my number and told him to call.

 He did and that’s why I’m here. He got a new television and wants help setting it up.

     I look around the room and see that he has several pictures up similar to ones I have in my

 room. You know, pictures of pretty women. We talk for awhile and I find out that his birthday is

 near mine and that we are very close in age.  I get the weirdest feeling. Kind of like I’m looking

 in one of those funky mirrors that you might find in a carnival or the funhouse of an amusement

 park. The ones that distort your image. I feel like I could have been him had things been

 different.

#

     I’m back home and I tell you I have a new appreciation for this place. My bedroom is as big

 as that whole room in the hotel. Sometimes I see the homeless folks who are literally camped

 out on the sidewalk around here and get the feeling that could have been me too. They have

 tarps or blankets thrown over a couple shopping carts and huddle underneath, claiming a spot

 for the night, trying to stay warm. Things are fragile. All those Wall Street tycoons in the

 nineteen twenties thought they were untouchable before the big crash. The next thing you know

 they were out windows like desperate divers into empty swimming pools.