I was in love with a girl in junior high school. Her name was Tracy. Brunette cowgirl with breasts too big for thirteen. I put on aftershave for the farewell dance. Crimson and Clover started playing, the last slow song of the night. Cooper swooped in on her and stole my only chance to ever hold her in my arms.
I was thinking about this as I crossed the Bay Bridge. I work in San Francisco a lot. It’s a beautiful city. Every time I drive across the bridge I’m blown away. So I’m sorry I didn’t include the pictures of Coit Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge and that giant ugly boner known as Rincon Tower.
Today I was working in Little Saigon. Above are the pictures of this job. The name of the establishment is The Magazine. They sell a ton of used magazines–gay ones and straight porn and travel and collectible editions of stuff I’ve never heard of. It boggles the mind how much random DNA must be on the printed material inside these walls. While I was talking to the proprietor to coordinate the work, there was a stack of “Big Ass” magazines on the counter. The cover, believe it or not, had a close-up of a big ass (so as not to be confused with Small Ass magazine).
Excellent target marketing.
Mostly I work in Pac Heights and upper-class neighborhoods–but not always. The city can be a pain in the ass if you’re working here—parking tickets and delivery trucks and bike couriers. A few days ago I worked on the 22nd floor of new construction on Broadway and Columbus—southern part of North Beach. Ballpark’s not too far and you can almost touch Coit Tower.
But not this time. This time I got dirty and junkie. Sidewalks soaked with piss. Stench of Third World sewers. Sometimes I have to get my hands dirty and work for The Man (in this case an older bespectacled gentleman and his boyfriend).
Part of what I had to do was mortar back the 100-year-old marble base molding at the front of the building, along with some little terrazzo work by the door. I always try to take BEFORE and AFTER pics. I won’t be using these on the website.
The bum laying here was right in front of the door where I needed to work. The proprietor got nervous whenever I left anything on the sidewalk—I mean, he was afraid someone would steal my bucket of mortar water. Yet surprisingly, all the pimps, hookers and bums left my dirty water alone.
The bum wouldn’t wake up, so I had to pull him out of the way. I thought his coat was pretty cool, or had been at one time. Whenever I see someone in this condition, it makes me wonder how he got to this point, this very day, laying on the sidewalk with me pulling him by the ankles to get him away from the door.
It’s like playing with a wasp. I don’t know if he’s going to wake crazy, or not wake up, or a cop’s going to come over and think I’m dragging a dead guy into the street. I don’t have these problems in Pac Heights. Rich people pass out on chaise longues.
Driving back over the bridge, I thought about Tracy again, in the light of those cagey gym lights, Crimson and Clover playing over and over.
I never got to touch her. I never got to dance with her. I sure as hell never got to drag her by the ankles anywhere.
I waited too long. Let that Cooper bastard get to her first.
Wasted good aftershave.