It doesn't make you horny, if you listen to me swear this way?
Bus to Anaheim
by Jeff Glovsky
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In San Francisco...Spinning round the Metronome. I've no idea...
I walked to meet her here, from Geary. Walked with map, the vaguest notion...Even that's all over now! Head spinning, feel up for blood...There's none. There's just black lumps and pride. Originally Published
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The Mission. Baddest part of town...I smelled things getting worse there; I, like Fortune, found a taxicab.
"So how's San Francisco to walk? It's safe?" The driver's eyes meet mine in disbelief. He smirks and shakes his head. 'Oh, really? Even this early?"
"Back there? Back where I picked you up? There's twenty murders every day."
"Every...?"
"Every day," he nods. "And that's just in that Mission district. Then there's Market Street, the Castro...Boy, you're lucky I came by."
I sit in silence as the driver makes a left, back where I'd come from; then drives straight, right to the Metronome, he doesn't rip me off...So it grows obvious I'd missed my mark night-walking.
“...much I owe you, man?"
"Well...How much you got on you?"
"Uh...No. What's the fare from where you picked me up? From there to here?"
"It's ten...Ten-fifty, actually."
"Then that's what I got on me. Oh, but seeing as you probably saved my Life..." I give him fourteen dollars. Climb out of his cab and nod goodbye, then turn to go inside...
"So how's San Francisco to walk? It's safe?" The driver's eyes meet mine in disbelief. He smirks and shakes his head. 'Oh, really? Even this early?"
"Back there? Back where I picked you up? There's twenty murders every day."
"Every...?"
"Every day," he nods. "And that's just in that Mission district. Then there's Market Street, the Castro...Boy, you're lucky I came by."
I sit in silence as the driver makes a left, back where I'd come from; then drives straight, right to the Metronome, he doesn't rip me off...So it grows obvious I'd missed my mark night-walking.
“...much I owe you, man?"
"Well...How much you got on you?"
"Uh...No. What's the fare from where you picked me up? From there to here?"
"It's ten...Ten-fifty, actually."
"Then that's what I got on me. Oh, but seeing as you probably saved my Life..." I give him fourteen dollars. Climb out of his cab and nod goodbye, then turn to go inside...
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The Metronome is locked and dark.
...So I don’t see it up behind me (peering through the window as I was, I only see inside: deep black, with neon radiating): cracked the pane, alarm exploding…head flushed, blue behind crushed eyelids, ripping, empty wallet gone...Down! Crying for the count... I wake up. Spinning round the Metronome. "Now where the hell'd she go?" I think. "It was supposed to be tonight...?" |
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And then I think I'd better get a cab, get back to Geary Street. My hotel’s there, soft pastel sheets and fusty warm interiors...The street I'm on is empty. Long, deserted, broken warehouses...
The Metronome was s'posed to be here, dancing until three! "Goddammit.”
Pissed now, walking...No idea! The map left on the...ground? Or was it? Taxi...Deli...Doorman building...
Don't think I'm in Kansas now.
If I can get back to the Mission...Cab came straight from there; no turns...Down...this way? Metronome on left, when....Got out driver's side. Uh-huh...
Set off. Back toward (I think) the Mission. There, at least there'll be some people...Breathing! Breath of night...Emission...
Suddenly, I'm back again...I'm here? Back where I started! How's that possible!?
Consult my...
Oh.
Set off again (I'm really lost now); head exhausted, weighted eyes (deep, yellow-crusted, black and blue). The downtown city's angles spire pointedly, lit up on left...I go there, walking toward the glow.
Down still another boarded, home-less, once proud, dark west-coastern street. I'm humming California Dreamin'...pulling daisies for my hair...I tiptoe, edged and tension-packed down backstreets, freaked in hippie moon...
Luck won't strike twice, I tell myself; still, hum aloud...belt, screaming, out the words to long dead melodies. I'm talking to myself, and burbling, burping out ecstatically...cracked, praying lightning won't strike twice!
I make it to the edge of Market Street, where people finally glow. I stumble through the neon, down the crusted, naughty pavement; past the porno barns and donut shops, the hookers and all-night transvestites…Old-eyed, gorgeous-bodied, full Brazilians swipe their tongues at me...
One says she is Elizabeth.
"Your eye," she says. "What's up with that?"
"A fight...," say I.
"Your wife?" asks she...
She leans toward me...and I can smell her perfume, musk and seashell sand. “It doesn’t make you horny, if you listen to me swear this way?” Then riffs on fuck and cunt and shit...I ask how she says “horny” in her Portuguese...
She licks her lips; but fully...two ripe buds explode! Slow-motion, like a nature documentary...Some insect show! Red tongue like lava floods between them, smothers forest teeth like gum...
Red, potent night in San Francisco!
...I need tea to calm me down. "Hey, let's go get a tea," I tell the whore.
She feels sorry for me. "Tea? You are not well?" she asks. I tell her what went down before. "Oh! So you do not want fuck, so?"
"I don’t think so, baby. Not tonight...Just want a cup of tea.”
"You're staying where?" she asks...and foolishly, I’m just about to tell her. But, "In Anaheim," I state with caution. "Friends..."
"Uh-huh...Where is your friends, so?"
"...I came up alone," I lie.
"You drove?"
"Drove? No, I took the bus."
The Metronome was s'posed to be here, dancing until three! "Goddammit.”
Pissed now, walking...No idea! The map left on the...ground? Or was it? Taxi...Deli...Doorman building...
Don't think I'm in Kansas now.
If I can get back to the Mission...Cab came straight from there; no turns...Down...this way? Metronome on left, when....Got out driver's side. Uh-huh...
Set off. Back toward (I think) the Mission. There, at least there'll be some people...Breathing! Breath of night...Emission...
Suddenly, I'm back again...I'm here? Back where I started! How's that possible!?
Consult my...
Oh.
Set off again (I'm really lost now); head exhausted, weighted eyes (deep, yellow-crusted, black and blue). The downtown city's angles spire pointedly, lit up on left...I go there, walking toward the glow.
Down still another boarded, home-less, once proud, dark west-coastern street. I'm humming California Dreamin'...pulling daisies for my hair...I tiptoe, edged and tension-packed down backstreets, freaked in hippie moon...
Luck won't strike twice, I tell myself; still, hum aloud...belt, screaming, out the words to long dead melodies. I'm talking to myself, and burbling, burping out ecstatically...cracked, praying lightning won't strike twice!
I make it to the edge of Market Street, where people finally glow. I stumble through the neon, down the crusted, naughty pavement; past the porno barns and donut shops, the hookers and all-night transvestites…Old-eyed, gorgeous-bodied, full Brazilians swipe their tongues at me...
One says she is Elizabeth.
"Your eye," she says. "What's up with that?"
"A fight...," say I.
"Your wife?" asks she...
She leans toward me...and I can smell her perfume, musk and seashell sand. “It doesn’t make you horny, if you listen to me swear this way?” Then riffs on fuck and cunt and shit...I ask how she says “horny” in her Portuguese...
She licks her lips; but fully...two ripe buds explode! Slow-motion, like a nature documentary...Some insect show! Red tongue like lava floods between them, smothers forest teeth like gum...
Red, potent night in San Francisco!
...I need tea to calm me down. "Hey, let's go get a tea," I tell the whore.
She feels sorry for me. "Tea? You are not well?" she asks. I tell her what went down before. "Oh! So you do not want fuck, so?"
"I don’t think so, baby. Not tonight...Just want a cup of tea.”
"You're staying where?" she asks...and foolishly, I’m just about to tell her. But, "In Anaheim," I state with caution. "Friends..."
"Uh-huh...Where is your friends, so?"
"...I came up alone," I lie.
"You drove?"
"Drove? No, I took the bus."
We pop into a donut shop (too bright, and packed with living ghosts)...In Portuguese, she asks the old Korean if he's got some soup. He stares, and I pick sopa out to translate...Now he understands. He nods his head and
grins, moronic.
"No," he says. "No soup," and grins again. Apologizes.
"I will take six donut holes. And beer...What kind of beer?" she asks.
"No beeeerr," the old man, foolishly. Sad, shrugging, hurt voice full of pity...
"I will take a tree!" I blurt. The whore, stunned as the old Korean, asks where I learned Portuguese. "Here, there," say I. "A necktie, please! Have hungry...Thirsts incredible!"
We finish up our soft repast...a pair of teas, six donut holes...
"I have to pee," Elizabeth states.
"Here, Man! Man!" (at the old Korean)..."Have you got one toilet room?!" The Old Korean nods his head...
"I take you to the bus station," she tells me. "I make chi-chi there."
"You'll take...No! Why?" I ask, alarmed.
"I must to pee."
"I know, but...Don't you have a place nearby?"
She tells me someone's using it. "But why you don't have hotel here? We really must to go!”
"Wait...Wait! What time is it?" I ask. "Look, there's a doorway. I'll stand here..."
"I can't!" she's blushing modestly. "Why? Don't you want to leave?" she asks. "I cannot hold me anymore!"
She hails down a cab and we careen to Union Station.
My hotel is just around the corner..."Hold!" says she, and flies across the concourse to the ladies' room; she's given me her giant, tasteless purse to keep an eye on. "I am here!" she pokes her head back out to yell, then disappears again.
I'm standing in the draft of Union Station as the sun comes up...The Suits are pouring in already, solace crushing like a fog; a giant Dalí clock says ten to six, above a schedule board: toward LA every twenty minutes, starting at 5:45...and one direct to Anaheim, 6:20 (next one out, eleven).
Oh, the $$ she must have (...hotel is just around the corner)...Hold her bag out, heft it straight in front of me (My things are there...My wallet stolen...) (Room...is just around the corner...
FUCK ALL AM I DOING HERE!?)
I stumble toward the exit, backwards, eyes glued on the bathroom door...It stays shut, and I whirl and sprint and...
Bag stays in revolving door!
It nearly rips my arm off! I jerk back, I hit my head on the chrome frame, I howl in pain so a policeman smirks and thrusts his ennui'd thumbs into his gun belt.
...I am back inside.
The clock says five to six, as the far bathroom door swings open and Elizabeth emerges. She's all waving, lipsticked, full of smile...reeking breath from sperm deep-swallowed miles ago, and hours away...Runs over to me, asks what time my bus leaves. "Why you were outside?"
"I...lost my ticket! I don't have it anywhere...I thought maybe..."
"Eeee!" she says. "You lost your ticket!"
"Sím," I'm dumb. "I...guess...I lost it!"
"What time leaves your bus?" asks she.
Shrug. "I dunno..."
"Excuse me!? 'Scuse!" accosts a redcap...
"...Wait! Elizabeth!"
"Six-twenty! Almost late...,” she says. "You're sweet. Might like to be with you...You call to me?"
"Of course...I’ll call you."
"Here…My beeper...You must go!", scrawls...leads me by the groin to dock 15...Head-spins me, slicks my ear, and sticks me on the dizzy bus to Anaheim.
...It was last night?
grins, moronic.
"No," he says. "No soup," and grins again. Apologizes.
"I will take six donut holes. And beer...What kind of beer?" she asks.
"No beeeerr," the old man, foolishly. Sad, shrugging, hurt voice full of pity...
"I will take a tree!" I blurt. The whore, stunned as the old Korean, asks where I learned Portuguese. "Here, there," say I. "A necktie, please! Have hungry...Thirsts incredible!"
We finish up our soft repast...a pair of teas, six donut holes...
"I have to pee," Elizabeth states.
"Here, Man! Man!" (at the old Korean)..."Have you got one toilet room?!" The Old Korean nods his head...
"I take you to the bus station," she tells me. "I make chi-chi there."
"You'll take...No! Why?" I ask, alarmed.
"I must to pee."
"I know, but...Don't you have a place nearby?"
She tells me someone's using it. "But why you don't have hotel here? We really must to go!”
"Wait...Wait! What time is it?" I ask. "Look, there's a doorway. I'll stand here..."
"I can't!" she's blushing modestly. "Why? Don't you want to leave?" she asks. "I cannot hold me anymore!"
She hails down a cab and we careen to Union Station.
My hotel is just around the corner..."Hold!" says she, and flies across the concourse to the ladies' room; she's given me her giant, tasteless purse to keep an eye on. "I am here!" she pokes her head back out to yell, then disappears again.
I'm standing in the draft of Union Station as the sun comes up...The Suits are pouring in already, solace crushing like a fog; a giant Dalí clock says ten to six, above a schedule board: toward LA every twenty minutes, starting at 5:45...and one direct to Anaheim, 6:20 (next one out, eleven).
Oh, the $$ she must have (...hotel is just around the corner)...Hold her bag out, heft it straight in front of me (My things are there...My wallet stolen...) (Room...is just around the corner...
FUCK ALL AM I DOING HERE!?)
I stumble toward the exit, backwards, eyes glued on the bathroom door...It stays shut, and I whirl and sprint and...
Bag stays in revolving door!
It nearly rips my arm off! I jerk back, I hit my head on the chrome frame, I howl in pain so a policeman smirks and thrusts his ennui'd thumbs into his gun belt.
...I am back inside.
The clock says five to six, as the far bathroom door swings open and Elizabeth emerges. She's all waving, lipsticked, full of smile...reeking breath from sperm deep-swallowed miles ago, and hours away...Runs over to me, asks what time my bus leaves. "Why you were outside?"
"I...lost my ticket! I don't have it anywhere...I thought maybe..."
"Eeee!" she says. "You lost your ticket!"
"Sím," I'm dumb. "I...guess...I lost it!"
"What time leaves your bus?" asks she.
Shrug. "I dunno..."
"Excuse me!? 'Scuse!" accosts a redcap...
"...Wait! Elizabeth!"
"Six-twenty! Almost late...,” she says. "You're sweet. Might like to be with you...You call to me?"
"Of course...I’ll call you."
"Here…My beeper...You must go!", scrawls...leads me by the groin to dock 15...Head-spins me, slicks my ear, and sticks me on the dizzy bus to Anaheim.
...It was last night?
more published snatches from
UNDERWEAR WOMAN DIGS THE SEA
These are Some Travel Stories!
by New York City-based writer, photographer, poet, flâneur
Jeff Glovsky
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Left Coastin' (Some LA Scenes)
"The park breaks Piggett Drive at Bentley. Who says you can't walk out here?"
Contact the Author ...
Jeff Glovsky
