The phone rang while I was waiting for the other side of the pork to brown&glaze. I cranked off the radio. It was her. She was lying in a hot bath and she called to quote Thoreau and ask me when I’m coming.
“Next week, Dandelion.”
She said it ain’t nothing but cold rain and grey up there.
“We’ll make it, baby.” I hung up the phone.
The pork was done. I poured myself a large glass of beer. I shut down the oven and put the meat in the fridge.
The days are short and cold and it’s getting nasty out there. Yesterday somebody got killed out on Ben White when I was driving to the interview. They had the left lane roped off eastbound and the wreck was twisted on its side. It’s impossibly rigged and fucked-trying to make a living down here just might get you killed.
Won’t be long, Dandelion. Just you and me out on the West Coast again.
I remember running to the store in my Valentine’s day boxers for Pale Ale&Maduros. We had Steve James on the stereo. The wedding was off and the weekend was ours. I drove out in the nicest car I ever owned, paid for by the hours in the basement of Cityzine reviewing countless horrible bands. I remember them telling me that Philly was where it was at and I remember the closeness, that terrible closeness. Someone drilled it into her head she had to marry him or she would die poor. They were all wrong and we had a good run then. Those were mad young days.
Grinding it out on those flathead steel streets ain’t much different than this hustle and shakedown here. I’m blowing 50 bucks on gas interviewing for jobs that pay $9/hr. She’s filthy rich and living up on some rain-soaked mountain in Multnomah County. It’s the same old madness but a familiar escape.
Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.
One more interview and I’ll be hopping in a cab and saying so long to Hippie Town. I hope the cabbie lets me smoke and I hope he knows a better way to the Airport than Ben White.
Going for the Throat 