rye

I was sitting outside the bar in the smoking den.  it’s not as much a den as it is just a steel cage on the sidewalk of the tenderloin. Tom, the original Tom Green, was talking about what a great married living situation it would be for him right there on the street, in a cage.

he said, “yeah.. I could live out here and she could live in there.”

we laughed, all knowing that it may actually be a great spot for him, this cage.

he said, “I’ll shit over there in the corner and just spray it off with a hose.”

Eric asked, “what would you use to hose it off, Tom?”

Tom replied, “hell, I’ll shit over there in that corner!”

Eric interrupted Tom’s scowled expression as Tom sat hunched over and pointing with an index finger at the corner and said, “you could fling your shit, Tom.  you could fling it across the street” and again, we all laughed.

Tom continued, “yeah, hell man, you could put a tire swing out here” and as he was saying this, looking up languorously, an effortless vision arose in all of us featuring Tom swaying back and forth hanging onto a braided rope, hanging on with one hand, his feet resting atop a beat up BF Goodrich knobby tread tire.  we were envisioning him swinging around like a great ape, flinging shit out onto Geary street.

Eric was smoking a cigarette and I was watching Tom sway back and forth with a dark and stormy in my hand.  I had on a hoodie.  it was one of those nights when everyone recognizes you and says things like, “so, you’re Ben’s Dad!  I know Ben from when his company was sued by some other big company, something about trade secrets.”  it was one of those nights when the bartender kisses you right on the mouth and mountains move and the particles creating blank space try to hold strong together, swimming around the room.

I guess it was about 1:30 when we managed to leave the bar.  I walked courageously, laughingly stumbling all the while, out into oncoming traffic to summon a cab.  we got into the cab and while being attacked by the rubber lining of the door I said, “hey man, your car is falling apart”.  Tom leaned over childishly and whispered, “ma’am – not man”.

I looked up and I saw one eyeball, her right eyeball, and a pair of cherry red lips glancing back at me with indifference from the rear-view mirror.  I named the cross-streets and she drove off.  we went an interesting and new direction, one that I may have refuted at 1:30 PM with a clear head but at that moment, we did not give a fuck.  we laughed at nothing (nothing, being things like direction or red lights or a man with a boom box and a headband strolling up McAllister).

it didn’t matter to us. we were on the cusp of this night.  we were riding it the way we’ve always known to ride it, not forgetting where we came from.  that is exactly the thing that got us here.  that got us out here to California, and it was never an easy ride.  leaving is never easy.  poking your head through some doorway, looking to both sides before entering not knowing if something is coming at you or not is never easy.  but there we were, exiting the cab toward the curb so we didn’t get run over in the middle of the street.  the crazies were out.  we were them.  we were tough and knew it, and therefore did not go looking for it.  we were hungry but not tired.  we were full of what it is to be jazz.  we were proud, and we were back. there is no changing that.  not tonight or any other night.  we were swept away by a blood lust haze of fog gathered in the street lights of the lower haight.

and so we were granted entrance into the night, the true night as it were, by that little brick encrusted bar at geary and leavenworth.  without the spiral, there wouldn’t be a ride and soon, without fail, I will be right there at the gate of that steal lined wooden door to get my ticket from a man named Q wearing a stocking cap and a smile.  I will order strong beverages from the beautiful people behind the bar and I’ll be at the helm once again, knowing what it is to float above normalcy.