Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Yesterday my plane landed at

Yesterday my plane landed at Burbank at 8 am and we took a shuttle downtown.  We got off the freeway at Hill Street and drove through Chinatown.  As we passed a pedestrian mall surmounted by a big clumsy structure meant to resemble a chinese gate, I saw them standing beneath it, among the shuttered apothecaries and tchochketoriums.  The dawn was pallid and foggy; the walkway was nearly deserted; the shuttle was going fast to make up for time lost in traffic.  But they were impossible to miss.  She was wearing a tight blue sheath skirt that rode high up her slim thighs; her enormous bosom strained the fabric and my credulity.  Her friend was wearing a pink mini skirt, or maybe hot pants, and a white jersey burgeoning with mammaries.  They were both wearing platform pumps and carried small purses.  Their other friend was wearing a fur coat, tan slacks, cowboy boots and a broad brimmed hat.  He’d have looked like a pimp even without the hookers.  They stood together in the chilly air, laughing.  I wanted to ask them what they were laughing at, why they were hanging out in that empty mall, whether their day was beginning or ending.  But the van drove on and I will never know what was really happening.  Their bodies seemed artificial; their clothes seemed a parody; but the laughter seemed genuine.  I hope it was.