I saw the most beautiful thing on the train this morning. The sun was shining and the music was playing, though headphones were no longer necessary. The sky hammers a blue haze at sunrise, but I missed it yet again. No chucks today, or anytime soon. They got hip and expensive, and it’s such a waste of money to look poor.
Kid Cudi rocks my coffee shops, and I intend to wear these sandals until the snow flies. Fire flies and Pixie girls wear discerning scowls as they frequent my train, no time for smiles during this Occupation. A shantytown took over the city park, a modern day urban petting zoo for the banksters’ lunch time constitutional. Man cannot live on rice and beans alone. But I try. With extra hot sauce, because life is too bland for an upset stomach. Smiles are still free in these parts, but she saves hers for a down payment on a townhouse up in Northwest.
A stolen study space provides ample opportunity for observation, and my hoodie smells like menthol cigarettes. I am constantly asked directions here. I’m somehow “safe” and “approachable” despite sporting the same fringe uniform of every other individual in this too hip City of Roses. I decided not to fight it, and bought a map to the stars instead. We’re all pawns and ants when viewed from a passing plane. Which is why I hitch hike whenever possible.
Black wire framed glasses complement her silver MacBook pro nicely, she’s going to make an excellent corporate accountant someday. People aren’t as friendly as I remember. But the beer still comes cold and cheap, a Midwest import; just like me. The old spots have taken on a melancholy shade of gray, their winter coats guard against the rain. It’s not hard to survive on one meal day, as long as there’s a bottomless ceramic mug of black coffee. Sugar will rot your smile. Black as his jacket, skinny as her jeans. Parted sideways like her haircut. Crooked as my teeth. With gaps where white should be. And why shouldn’t there be? Soft spoken and misunderstood, with brown suede pants and an infinite longing for excitement. We should all be so lucky.
I’m not nearly hip enough to type here. Luckily they still accept cash money, even though my eyes don’t beg for acceptance. No, instead my eyes project a breezy confidence, an acceptable amount of aloofness, a nonchalance that isn’t trying to play their game. It acknowledges their game, but instead of choosing to win or lose, my eyes give away the fact that I’m no longer playing. The elusive third option.
Calf skin boots march next to the vegan option, and they’d both be beautiful if they weren’t such obvious clichés. I’d settle for frozen fish, and a good Zombie Movie. But on Friday we will drink rum and lament the fact that we missed out on Puerto Rico in the early 1960s. Though I’ve never been much of a bowler.
Carved into my worn wood desk, it says, “Ignore the Naysayers” which strikes me as ironic, because this is a Quiet Section. I feel like the Naysayers would first be politely warned, and if that failed to stifle their Saying of Nay, they’d be taken out back, and beaten like mules, wrapped tightly in burlap sacks and floated down the Willamette, only to be sold into white slavery, or perhaps to the paper mills. Where ever the price is right, in this ugly economy.
If only she’d look up and smile, I’d feel like I could finish this rant.