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(looking for) the heartbreaker

It has been more than two months sitting at the little white table in the living room, writing. Pushing out pages, fixing these pages, living with these pages then waking up and chewing them apart again, then adding on a new section. It is a mill, grinding the raw ideas down to a fine powder that may somehow rise and become bread. Or it may not. So many thoughts begin with "what if". What if they get stuck in an old elevator? What if she is not home when they come the first time? What if she is coming back from the market and passes them on the stairs? What if the driver is older? Or younger? What if his brother shows up instead? The questions are greater than the results on the page, the dialogue is whittled down to nubs of something recognizable.

There are cold cups of coffee, emails that go unanswered. The light comes and goes, and most of the work is done in the dark in more ways than one. Cooking dinner helps. Playing some guitar helps. If you are not careful you forge…

waiting

I hear honking from the balcony. The sound is weak, like one of those little toy cans that you turn on their side that makes the sound of a cow. A trolley bus stands in the middle of the street, blocked by a sedan. No one is in the car. Now a second trolley bus waits behind the first one. They are connected to a web of wires that run along the traffic lights above the streets, and spark sometimes when it rains. 

The black sedan is more than double-parked in an active street. It was left in the only lane the trolleys can use. A woman in a fluorescent orange vest and flip flops comes out of the bus, approaching the car, peering inside. Many of the drivers are women like her. I marvel at their ability to jump from the wheel during snowstorms, when the spring-loaded arms that connect to the wires get disconnected. I see them, in those same sandals whipping ropes into the air to snap things back in place. 
She stands for a moment, then goes back inside to honk some more.

I look down the street, seeing another bus approaching. There is something so allegorical about literally standing in the middle of the street, waiting for someone to correct a wrong.


There are six trolley cars waiting now, all honking the same weak song. There is one modern bus that stands after the black sedan. Old women are creeping out of the stopped trolleys, making their way past the abandoned car and then rumbling away, with their little rolling grocery carts and their drooping knee high stockings.

People are walking up to the black sedan, testing the wheels to see if the parking brake is on. One bus driver takes pictures of the license plates with her cel phone. I wait, for once to see the face of someone responsible, to see if there is an apology.

And then someone does approach the car, keys turning in the door. One of the buses pulls in front of him, blocking his exit and I have a fantasy that they will keep him there until the police arrive. I imagine an old woman whacking her purse against his windows, but nothing happens. I watch the man's sheepish, hunched shoulders as he does not drive off but pulls into an actual parking space instead, leaving the car there and going back down the sidewalk to the floating restaurant that sits on the river, where the waitresses are all in miniskirts and push-up bras, where the wine prices are four times more than they should be, where you can get sushi or steak or some stale, overpriced tiramisu.

Comments

liv said…
Ha, that one was actually funny!

Now please help a girl out here....surely there has been a pork chop or some lamb or delicate little pancakes that have gone through that kitchen lately....but nothing coming this way.
I'm longing for the scent of spices and oils and your unctuous photos of this (not so) minor talent you have for making people's mouths water and tummies growl. Please, a kitchen post?

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