(no subject)
It’s noon on a Thursday and I’m back at the mall again. I sit on the edge of the fountain, disheveled wearing an old tan sports coat with a tear on the left lapel where a pin once sat. A pin from a lover, a pin I tore off. I keep a sharp eye out, watching passers by. Young women pushing strollers and a group of mentally challenged adults pass by. That's about all you get this time of day, young women spending their husbands money and retards on field trips. Ever couple weeks I sit here observe people's behavior. People do strange things when they don't know they are being watched. I once saw a woman pull out her tampon by the pretzel stand and smell it. Every few minutes I reach into the fountain and pluck out a coin. Four dollars and thirty two cents, almost there. A little girl once caught me and told me those coins were someone’s wishes I was stealing. That made me smile.
Finally, here he comes. The man I've been waiting for. Mall security. He knows me, he knows what I'm up to and that's my cue to leave before he gets too close. I stand up with my pocket full of change and straighten out my coat. Exit stage left. Make it swift this time. I know he won’t give chase but It’s clear I’ve over stayed my welcome. Walk briskly Out the door and into the 104 degree heat. A regular blast furnace, Bakersfield California in the summertime, hell of a place to visit if you’re into sight seeing.
The driver’s side door to my 89 Honda no longer functions. A minor inconvenience, I open the passenger side door and crawl into the drivers seat. It's hot the steering wheel burns my hands. As I put the keys in the ignition there is a tap on the window
Security, please step out of your vehicle sir
I’ll pass, I say to myself. If the engine will just turn over I swear I’ll show up at church this Sunday, Jesus. The car coughs, sputters and screams while I turn the key until it rattles itself into a shimmy. We got fire I tell myself. Exit stage right, to the first available driveway from the parking lot. The security guard has a firm grip on my antenna as I back away. He trots along the car repeating his orders louder and louder
Out of the car, sir! Out of the car now!
Staring straight ahead I give it some gas. I spent the better part of the day collecting this change, I’m not gonna let it go that easy. Slow on the gas until he starts tripping over his feet. With a quick snap I watch him shrink in my rear view mirror holding my antenna in his hand. I crack a smile, it seems this time it was a draw. sweat creeps down my face, the car must be 120 degrees inside after baking in the desert sun. It’s a real shame my window doesn’t roll down but I haven’t got far to go my oasis is close.
I straighten out my gold rimmed sun glasses in my rear view that’s dangling from the windshield by duct tape. My white dress shirt is free of stains for once and my jeans feel swampy with the humidity of my body and the heat of the car. I wonder if he called the cops this time…I’m already on probation, the last thing I need is to be hassled by the police. At last, the oasis, the Lamont Street liquor store. I pull up font into the handicapped spot and kill the engine. It sputters and spits long after I’ve killed the engine. How ironic. I jingle as I walk, my pocket full of wishes. Mr. Kim greets me, and there is a bottle of cheap whiskey set out on the counter. Am I so predictable? Mr. Kim knows me well, I come in every day and purchase the same two items. A bottle of whiskey and a pack of rolling tobacco.
I figure it’s time to get back home just in case the police are looking for me. No small talk today Mr. Kim, I’m in a hurry. It’s probably an insult to the Korean people to be so short but I’ve got more pressing matters like the black and white cruising Lamont Street looking for a tan 89 Honda. Perhaps I’m just paranoid. Back over the passenger seat again and into my car. I open the bottle and take four big gulps. I gotta get home. It’s getting late. I round the corner and take a small residential street full of abandoned homes. Yards full of garbage, old refrigerators and children's toys. It’s much too hot for the children to play today. At the end of the street is an old motel. The sign is a big arrow lined with broken and burned out light bulbs. It’s old and decayed but this is where I live now. This is home, Room 4. I don’t have a street address anymore…I’m just a room number. I’m Peter, room number 4. I am the white man, the weird guy, I’m a wanted man but around here nobody gives a shit. Just as long as I make rent, I will be room 4. The door always jams and the air conditioning takes a good kick to get going. I have a seat at my small motel table that is scarred with graffiti the names of the previous inhabitants. Some barley legible. I enjoy trying to read it. Grabbing a glass I spit into it and wipe the dust out using my shirt. I pour myself a shot and roll a cigarette.
I stare at the wall, it’s got a pastel pink hue to it and all the wiring is exposed, graffiti is scratched into the plaster. Joker MS13 it says. I wonder if joker was here for the same reasons as me. I’ll tell you one thing… this place, this room, the dark green shag carpeting and the pink floral bed spread the exposed plumbing in the sink, the moldy shower, the rust stained toilet…I’ll tell you this place was made for people that were running from something. I pour some more whiskey from the bottle and next to my glass using a pocket knife I carve Peter Huerta into the table. I’m a part of it now. It’s finally hit me that this is real. It’s been a long ride here and for those who care to read on, I encourage you to see the patterns that led me to this spot. A bottle full of children's wishes gives me peace. Just one more and I will go down. I slouch into my chair and my eyes close slowly. Tomorrow is a new day.
Finally, here he comes. The man I've been waiting for. Mall security. He knows me, he knows what I'm up to and that's my cue to leave before he gets too close. I stand up with my pocket full of change and straighten out my coat. Exit stage left. Make it swift this time. I know he won’t give chase but It’s clear I’ve over stayed my welcome. Walk briskly Out the door and into the 104 degree heat. A regular blast furnace, Bakersfield California in the summertime, hell of a place to visit if you’re into sight seeing.
The driver’s side door to my 89 Honda no longer functions. A minor inconvenience, I open the passenger side door and crawl into the drivers seat. It's hot the steering wheel burns my hands. As I put the keys in the ignition there is a tap on the window
Security, please step out of your vehicle sir
I’ll pass, I say to myself. If the engine will just turn over I swear I’ll show up at church this Sunday, Jesus. The car coughs, sputters and screams while I turn the key until it rattles itself into a shimmy. We got fire I tell myself. Exit stage right, to the first available driveway from the parking lot. The security guard has a firm grip on my antenna as I back away. He trots along the car repeating his orders louder and louder
Out of the car, sir! Out of the car now!
Staring straight ahead I give it some gas. I spent the better part of the day collecting this change, I’m not gonna let it go that easy. Slow on the gas until he starts tripping over his feet. With a quick snap I watch him shrink in my rear view mirror holding my antenna in his hand. I crack a smile, it seems this time it was a draw. sweat creeps down my face, the car must be 120 degrees inside after baking in the desert sun. It’s a real shame my window doesn’t roll down but I haven’t got far to go my oasis is close.
I straighten out my gold rimmed sun glasses in my rear view that’s dangling from the windshield by duct tape. My white dress shirt is free of stains for once and my jeans feel swampy with the humidity of my body and the heat of the car. I wonder if he called the cops this time…I’m already on probation, the last thing I need is to be hassled by the police. At last, the oasis, the Lamont Street liquor store. I pull up font into the handicapped spot and kill the engine. It sputters and spits long after I’ve killed the engine. How ironic. I jingle as I walk, my pocket full of wishes. Mr. Kim greets me, and there is a bottle of cheap whiskey set out on the counter. Am I so predictable? Mr. Kim knows me well, I come in every day and purchase the same two items. A bottle of whiskey and a pack of rolling tobacco.
I figure it’s time to get back home just in case the police are looking for me. No small talk today Mr. Kim, I’m in a hurry. It’s probably an insult to the Korean people to be so short but I’ve got more pressing matters like the black and white cruising Lamont Street looking for a tan 89 Honda. Perhaps I’m just paranoid. Back over the passenger seat again and into my car. I open the bottle and take four big gulps. I gotta get home. It’s getting late. I round the corner and take a small residential street full of abandoned homes. Yards full of garbage, old refrigerators and children's toys. It’s much too hot for the children to play today. At the end of the street is an old motel. The sign is a big arrow lined with broken and burned out light bulbs. It’s old and decayed but this is where I live now. This is home, Room 4. I don’t have a street address anymore…I’m just a room number. I’m Peter, room number 4. I am the white man, the weird guy, I’m a wanted man but around here nobody gives a shit. Just as long as I make rent, I will be room 4. The door always jams and the air conditioning takes a good kick to get going. I have a seat at my small motel table that is scarred with graffiti the names of the previous inhabitants. Some barley legible. I enjoy trying to read it. Grabbing a glass I spit into it and wipe the dust out using my shirt. I pour myself a shot and roll a cigarette.
I stare at the wall, it’s got a pastel pink hue to it and all the wiring is exposed, graffiti is scratched into the plaster. Joker MS13 it says. I wonder if joker was here for the same reasons as me. I’ll tell you one thing… this place, this room, the dark green shag carpeting and the pink floral bed spread the exposed plumbing in the sink, the moldy shower, the rust stained toilet…I’ll tell you this place was made for people that were running from something. I pour some more whiskey from the bottle and next to my glass using a pocket knife I carve Peter Huerta into the table. I’m a part of it now. It’s finally hit me that this is real. It’s been a long ride here and for those who care to read on, I encourage you to see the patterns that led me to this spot. A bottle full of children's wishes gives me peace. Just one more and I will go down. I slouch into my chair and my eyes close slowly. Tomorrow is a new day.