$560.00

That’s what the register read after the couple pointing to numbers and names and addresses on the ID stepped out of line.  He counted the wad it had hundreds and twenties.  I try to be patient in line here even when there’s two Indians behind the counter and four of us in line.  Seems like whatever it is, the trouble, it could be resolved by one of them while the other checks us out.  The new Indian he’s so surly I almost laugh at how much he reminds me of myself-younger, surly, twenty, twenty-five, working as a clerk in a coffee shop in West Philly. 
The night Camillia came in the shoppe and climbed up on the counter sticking her tongue down my throat.  They never told us in our formative years that working as a coffee clerk in a leftist part of college town will afford you more women and more residual women than any of your classmates rising up the ranks through high school and college could dream of.  Dream they will.  I don’t think a rat dreams of the wheel and by the time I’d left high school I understood-there was the job and there was the Work. 
I always want to have the luxury to do the Work even if it means 30hours on the job gambling with things like utilities, betting on things like cigarettes and beer.  This morning it was cigarettes and a cup with cream&sugar, old friend.  $560 was allot of money back then and still is even if it affords you less.  I don’t buy stocks or into fashion trends I buy time. 
I been thinking about something I heard you say after Yoga about “not knowing what the fuck” you’re doing writing your memoir.  It was so familiar to me it put me back in the cockpit, putting the stress and worry back in the fascia of my knees and thighs and hips, not knowing what the fuck I’m doing, sitting here “trying to capture a little glory” and typing, always typing just the same.  I’ll smoke another and get the press release up and out.  The website, same. 
Texas summer looms and it’s gonna be another hot and heavy hand and a long slow night that looking back went by too quickly and not quickly enough. 
My 6th grade teacher, Mr.Gough, when he disapproved condescendingly of me  wearing flannel shirts and jeans with the knees ripped out instead of imitation IZOD shirts and Pony “Nike-alikes” it was like he was disapproving of my existence.  He didn’t know(and neither did I at the time) that in addition to shutting me out of the intellectual circle he was disavowing for himself what Carlos Castaneda called “a path with a heart.”  24 years and a couple heavy metal and hardcore bands later I’m still on the path and wondering what the fuck I’m doing. 
It’d be easy to judge them all, the snide go-getting set in high school who counted on their parents being right and the government never lying to them.  It might make me feel better this morning or tonight but I’ve still got work to do.  Might make me thankful that the days of working in a coffee shoppe and depending on money orders for survival are behind me but there’s still this page and this heart and a road and a path-I wouldn’t forget the struggle if I could.  Dusty books and rules and something as meaningless as morality in exchange for a comfortable house to watch the sun setting on the Empire. 
Rats and dreams and cigarettes and another trip to the Bario for another cup with cream&sugar, old friend.

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