Wheels Keep Turning
Top down rolling through the West Side. They think we are federalazi as those are the only white boys stupid enough to be rolling in this neighborhood at 3am, with the top down no less.
We make it to our destination without physical incident, though the verbal trip was amusing. The beats are still pulsating from behind the black steel door which is good. We will have enough time for at least two beers before they send us scrambling to the streets like bloated rats that still haven’t had their fill.
The social ills of society are tossed about around a pool of beer and thought. We have a plan for a better world, a fix if you will. A world where grown men don’t attempt their daily commute on those little motor scooters. I passed one up while riding my bicycle to work the other day. I told the man he lost some balls a couple blocks back, they bounced into traffic before I could catch them for him. One day he will need to find a different way to propel himself to work. I’ll still be riding my bicycle I imagine. This is the world we constructed while discussing all that close friends discuss over a pint of drink. World peace is eminent. We just need to assume the throne.
I find my way over to a softer voice. Her lips move like the slow rolling of early morning waves over the rocks next to my thinking spot. I haven’t been there in a while but her voice takes me back there. She’s soft with plenty of flavor that reminds me she is real. She has been down that rocky trail and learned the way. She knows each stone, rut and tree branch that hangs over the path.
The beats subside. The lights turn on. Time to go.
My ride has faded into the night somewhere so she suggests I go home with her. I’m game; my place is 10 miles north which in the City might as well be a lifetime away at 5am. She has a fan blowing cool air from the window across the bed. She’s always hot. Admittedly I am in familiar space so I go to the refrigerator and ask if she would like anything as I pour myself some gin to cap my night. I wander back with gin in one hand, cool water in the other and a half drunken grin. We debrief the evening together then the lights go off. The beat resumes.
I awake in foreign sheets, though not as foreign as some lands I’ve rested my head within. Just last week I visited an Isle of Quarantine amidst an ocean they call suburbia. I heard the American dream lived there once. It must have been centuries ago when that land was still a vibrant land with a gentle civilization as inhabitants.
Normally I’m cold but this morning I feel hot. A warm sensation travels up my spine as my body touches her. My grin turns to a morning smile. “It cannot be this hot outside already,” I say to her. She laughs and says, “If I’m cold and you are hot, then you are drunk.” She tosses her arms around my hips. As I roll on my back my head swims a bit validating her comment regarding my mental state. Her arms are soft. It’s 8am. The beats subside to a slow patter of 55 beats per minute. I have to go.
Throw my stuff in my ever present backpack. Pull some pants on. She throws me a shirt. I forgot I left this one here last time. I am fairly certain I left my bicycle here last night. I’ll take it to work, get some of this hang over out of my system. Her soft lips kiss mine and I’m out into the sunshine. God made the sun to curse us alcoholics.
My bike is indeed here. Excellent. I slip into my pedals and head for the chaos that is the streets of the City. Dodge a cab here. Look out for that opening door there. Hey there is a guy on a motor scooter. Looks like he lost some balls as well. Those things should come with a warning. I pass him up but this time I don’t say anything. The man is waiting for me at the office. Luckily I have a solid set of balls in my all powerful backpack, right next to the paint sticks and markers, just underneath the weight of my text books. Something has to support those I suppose.
I’m rolling through downtown on my bicycle in 8th gear. They think I’m a messenger or a homeless fellow as those are the only ones stupid enough to roll on these kind of wheels at 8am, without a helmet no less.