photo posted from my iPhone
Looked like heat lightning over Berkeley, no bolt, no thunder. Only the second time that’s happened in 6 years. Just before dusk and the pigeons are home and cars are parked and a dirty front is riding in above the city like it doesn’t give a fuck and the Flagpoles are on my roof smoking and their little puffs of gray are pathetic dribbles floating out of their mouths compared to the unbroken rush above taking the hills and homes away from us. A long dark cloud coming from the ocean and crashing into different unexpecting east bay air. And the sky lights up.
AM radio guy is preaching as I cross the Richmond bridge and the steel construction cracks his voice like sun cracks the paint but the message is – wait till marriage.
“You sisters are jacked up. You think you have to let him just to have a relationship. Uh uh. You don’t let him touch the package, let alone be eatin’ chips out of it.”
The Richmond Bridge is an epic, small islands with sheer cliffs and no occupants but trees pass below you, San Quentin Prison is built on the shore, rotting piers finger out into the bay and empty oak hills roll on into the distance.
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photo posted from my iPhone
It’s an old tradition, painting your number on the side of your truck and setting out into the world hoping to survive. Not exactly a good Samaritan, just offering service for bread money. A dance of symbiosis. In the days of wagons without cellphones it was a name on the side, and before the wheel was even invented, well, we can’t be sure but likely a man would set out holding something that told the world he was willing to work for a bit of food.
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photo posted from my iPhone
Life on the edge is dangerous but working at the corner liquor store may be more so. I asked the shopkeeper how this happened, a drunk took the corner too fast. They had to call an ambulance because he was to drunk to stand once the cops pulled him out of the vehicle.
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