Friday, March 21, 2003

Yesterday was surreal. “I don’t

Yesterday was surreal. 

“I don’t know, but I’ve been told, it’s hard to run with a weight of gold...."
I caught my bus - late, again - and was surprised to get a seat, one of the inward-facing ones that I prefer.  I glanced around - there was an unusual concentration of non-ugly people.  I don’t mean to impose values or criteria for the way other people look, but the 38L can tote a rude-looking crew on occasion and this bunch wasn’t one of those.  As we worked our way downtown several of the less attractive folk left the bus - the dowdy, angry housewives, the dermatologically-challenged youth eating fast food out of foil wrappers, the old men with aggressive behavior and poor self-control… stop by stop they excused themselves politely and were replaced with a high concentration of well-presented, vibrant women.  There were lots of shapes, ages and sizes, but they tended toward the classic ‘hottie’ in face and physique.  One was sitting on either side of me.  Four stood in front of me, three more faced me across the aisle.  And there were plenty more sitting in the back. 

I was listening, for once, to the news on my headphones, looking for a handle on the unilateral acts of international aggression being perpetrated in my name.  I was trying to keep my mind on scuds and Basra and ‘shizzle & awe’ or whatever we’re calling ourselves.  But I’d glance up and see eyes focused on mine, turning coyly away.  The girl in the flowery dress in the back seemed to be looking in my direction, then down or out a window when I looked back at her.  The women across the aisle, I’m pretty sure, were peering at me from beneath their kohl-heavy lids and thick dark lashes.  Up till Union Square I felt (as I very rarely do) watched, noted, possibly appreciated.  Goddamn it.  I’m trying to keep my focus on the war and I’m surrounded by beautiful harem girls.  What am I supposed to be thinking?  How could this day of invasion and terror be Hot Chix day on Muni?  What were they doing on my bus?  And today, of all possible days, when my thoughts were black and sad?

“On the other hand, I’ve heard it said, it’s just as hard with a weight of lead...."
At Union Square the busses stopped, stacked up down to Market Street where traffic had all been halted.  Newspaper vending boxes had been dragged out as street barricades, as had garbage cans and sandbagged sawhorses… Thousands of protesters roamed in a daze right up the middle of Market, untroubled by cars - there were none - but with a grimness around their eyes.  They gathered at corners to chat and dance and wave signs at each other.  (Best chant: ‘Stop the war / in Iraq / it’s bullshit / it’s wack.’) One car made it onto Market but was stopped immediately by a young woman who laid down in front of it; a man quickly appeared to draw the outline of her body in chalk on the street. 

At Sansome and at Montgomery I saw batallions of cops in riot gear, their blue helmets looking a bit scuffed in the clear early morning light, their face shields lending them a predatory anonymity, long batons at the ready and pockets stuffed full of plastic zipcord cuffs; they stood in formation, five by ten, arms crossed as waves of the indignant in dreds and t-shirts surged forward and ebbed back, furious and impotent.  The noise and shields made it hard for the cops to communicate and they had to embrace and press their faces together if they wanted to speak to each other; it looked like they were necking.  The sky was clear, the air was clean.  I went to my office and acted normally.  It didn’t look or feel like a war.  I felt no threat, took no precautions. 

“One way or another, this darkness got to give...."
Going back home, the beautiful women and my charismatic attractiveness to them had both evaporated.  The cops were still gathered at the same intersections, milling about on the sidewalks, chatting amiably and eating fast food out of foil wrappers.  Like groomsmen at a wedding, they were superficially very similar in their uniforms but the individual differences were pronounced.  Some glowered, tapping their nightsticks into their palms; some giggled like kids on a fire drill.  I had the sniffles.  I got home and we ate salmon for dinner.  Things remain surreal.  This has been a Chuckehut update.  (Lyrics from New Speedway Boogie.)