Doug’s hair in the dying light that skimmed across cargo cranes on the docks of the port of Oakland before it hit that twisted fortress.
“I want two chicken tacos, pollo por favor. Dos baby. Dos.”
Diesels hit the fucked up dip at the railroad track that cuts across the port access road and all hell starts clanging and shaking while the drivers gear down with that sweet deep decrescendo and turn into an open gate in the chain link that rings the whole stretch around here, hobo control and a loading dock is a nice place to grab and go so there’s razor wire up there catching plastic bags in the act of trespass.
Just a taco truck pulled off the road alongside the rails and there’s nothing else to buy for miles around here. It makes me nervous. I suppose break rooms in those buildings have snack machines. But what if I really want a newspaper? A pack of cards? A plastic rose? I have the same uneasy feeling here as I do way out in the woods, a wallet full of cash but no where to spend it. Just locked up warehouses and bolted shut trailers.
Doug and I take our tacos out behind to get out of the Oakland sun. Life doesn’t seem easy even when it is. There’s always diesel particulate in the air. My truck might not start. I should be making money. But maybe for thirty seconds I feel good. I’m somewhere new. Then I’m heading home. Doug makes me laugh. He’s funny. We’re seeing the world. Maybe I’ll always be poor. I wish I could enjoy it more. It’s not bad.